3 

BLEAK HOUSE 

/37 




y ^^t 



CHARLES DICKENS 



WITH FORTY ILLUSTRATIONS BY PHIZ 
AND FACSIMILE OF WRAPPER TO FIRST PART 



A REPRINT OF THE EDITION CORRECTED BY THE 

AUTHOR IN 1869, WITH AN INTRODUCTION, BIOGRAPHICAL 

AND BIBLIOGRAPHICAL, BY CHARLES DICKENS 

THE Y^OUNGER 



y^'^ 



ISt'ca gotk 
MACMILLAN AND CO. 

AND LONDON 
1895 

All rights reserved 



^^ 



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Copyright, 1894, 
By MACMILLAN AND CO. 



NortoooD ^regs : 

J. S. Gushing & Co. — Berwick & Smith. 

Norwood, Mass., U.S.A. 



CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

List of Illustrations ........ xv 

Introduction .......... xvii 

CHAPTER I 
In Chancery ....... 1 

CHAPTER II 

In Fashion . . ... ... 7 

CHAPTER III 
A Progress 13 

CHAPTER IV 
Telescopic Philanthropy 31 

CHAPTER V 

A Morning Adventure 43 

CHAPTER VI 
Quite at Home 66 

CHAPTER VII 

The Ghost's Walk 76 

CHAPTER VIII 

Covering a Multitude of Sins 86 

CHAPTER IX 

Signs and Tokens 104 

ix 



X CONTENTS. 

CHAPTEK X 

PAGE 

The Law- Writer 119 

CHAPTER XI 
Our Dear Brother 128 



CHAPTER XII 
On the Watch 141 

CHAPTER XIII 
Esther's Narrative 164 

CHAPTER XIV 
Deportment 169 

CHAPTER XV 
Bell Yard 189 

CHAPTER XVI 
Tom-all-Alone's 202 

. CHAPTER XVII 
Esther's Narrative 211 

CHAPTER XVIII 
LadyDedlock 223 

CHAPTER XIX 
Moving On 241 

CHAPTER XX 
A New Lodger 253 



CONTENTS. xi 

CHAPTER XXI 

PAGE 

The Smallweed family 267 

CHAPTER XXII 
Mr. Bucket 284 

CHAPTER XXIII 
F^sther's Narrative 296 

CHAPTER XXIV 
An Appeal Case 312 



/ CHAPTER XXV 

Mrs. Snagsby sees it All 329 



CHAPTER XXVI 
Sharpshooters 337 

CHAPTER XXVII 
More Old Soldiers than One 350 

CHAPTER XXVIII 
The Ironmaster 362 

CHAPTER XXIX 
The Young Man 372 

CHAPTER XXX 
Esther's Narrative 382 

CHAPTER XXXI 
Nursi' and Patient 396 



xii CONTENTS. 

CHAPTER XXXII 

PAGE 

The Appointed Time 410 

CHAPTER XXXm 
Interlopers 422 

CHAPTER XXXIV 
A Turn of the Screw 438 

CHAPTER XXXV 
Esther's Narrative 453 

CHAPTER XXXVI 
Chesney Wold 466 

CHAPTER XXXVII 
Jarndyce and Jarndyce ........ 481 

CHAPTER XXXVIII 
A Struggle 498 

CHAPTER XXXIX 
Attorney and Client 607 

CHAPTER XL 
National and Domestic 522 

CHAPTER XLI 
In Mr. Tulkinghorn's Room 534 

CHAPTER XLII 
In Mr. Tulkingliorn's Chambers 642 

CHAPTER XLIII 
Esther's Narrative 548 



CONTENTS. xiii 

CHAPTER XLIV 

PAGE 

The Letter and the Answer 563 

CHAPTER XLV 
In Trust 570 

CHAPTER XLVI 
Stop Him ! . . . 581 

CHAPTER XLVII 
Jo's Will 589 "^ 

CHAPTER XLAail 
Closing In 602 

CHAPTER XLIX 
Dutiful Friendship . 616 

CHAPTER L 

Esther's Narrative 631 

CHAPTER LI 
Enlightened 639 

CHAPTER LII 
Obstinacy 650 

CHAPTER LIII 
The Track 660 

CHAPTER LIV 
Springing a Mine 671 

CHAPTER LV 

Flight 690 



XIV CONTENTS. 

CHAPTER LVI 

PAGE 

Pursuit 704 

CHAPTER LVII 
Esther's Narrative 712 

CHAPTER LVIII 
A Wintry Day and Night 729 

CHAPTER LIX 
Esther's Narrative 74l 

CHAPTER LX 
Perspective 754 

CHAPTER LXI 
A Discovery 765 

CHAPTER LXII 

Another Discovery ......... 774 

CHAPTER LXIII 
Steel and Iron 783 

CHAPTER LXIV 
Esther's Narrative 790 

CHAPTER LXV 
Beginning the World 800 

CHAPTER LXVI 
Down in Lincohishire 808 

CHAPTER LXVII 
The Close of Esther's Narrative 811 



LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS. 



I RONTISPIECE AND VIGNETTE 

FACSIMILE OF THE TITLE-PAGE TO THE FIRST EDITION 

lACSIMILE OF WRAPPER TO FIRST PART 
THE LITTLE OLD LADY .... 

MISS JELLYBY ...... 

THE LORD CHANCELLOR COPIES FROM MEMORY 
COAVINSES ....... 

THE VISIT AT THE BRICKMAKEr's 

IN RE GUPPY. EXTRAORDINARY PROCEEDINGS 

MR. GUPPY's DESOLATION .... 

THE FAMILY PORTRAITS AT MR. BAYHAM BADGE! 
THE DANCING-SCHOOL ..... 

CONSECRATED GROUND ..... 

caddy's FLOWERS ..... 

THE LITTLE CHURCH IN THE PARK 

MR. GUPPY's ENTERTAINMENT 

THE SMALLM'EED FAMILY .... 

A MODEL OF PARENTAL DEPORTMENT . 

MR. CHADBAND " UIPROVING " A TOUGH SUBJEI 

VISITORS AT THE SHOOTING GALLERY . 

THE YOUNG MAN OF THE NAME OF GUPPY . 

NURSE AND PATIENT ..... 

THE APPOINTED TIME ..... 

THE OLD MAN OF THE NAME OF TULKINGHORN 

MR. SMALL\Vi;i:i> BREAKS THE PIPE OF PEACE 

XV 



PAGE 

iv, V 

XXXV 

xxxvi 
29 
40 
54 
70 
100 
117 
158 
163 
176 
208 
224 
233 
258 
274 
306 
333 
343 
375 
407 
423 
437 
447 



LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS. 



LADY DEBLOCK IN THE WOOD ..... 
THE ghost's walk ....... 

attorney and client, fortitude and impatience 
sunset in the long drawing-room at chesnev wold 
sir leicester dedlock 
tom-all-alone's ..... 
a new meaning in the roman . 
friendly' behaviour of mr. bucket 

LIGHT .,,.... 

SHADOW ...... 

MRS. BA6NET RETURNS FROM HER EXPEDITI 
THE LONELY FIGURE .... 

THE NIGHT ...... 

THE MORNING ..... 

MAGNANIMOUS CONDUCT OK MR. GUPPY 
THE MAUSOLEUM AT CHESNEY WOLD . 



PASE 

471 

479 
513 
524 
559 
582 

er 

(326 
645 
670 
695 
711 
715 
753 
799 
807 



INTRODUCTION. 



Bleak House was begun at Tavistock House in Novem- 
ber, 1851, well in advance of the date of publication of the 
first number, which appeared in March, 1852. The original 
intention had been to call the book " Tom-all-Alone's/' and 
to give Jo a more important share in the working out of the 
plot than at last fell to his lot; but the exigencies of the 
story, as it gradually developed in its author's brain, neces- 
sitated considerable alterations in this respect in the original 
scheme. On the other hand, the attack on the abuses of 
the Court of Chancery grew stronger as the first ideas came 
to be worked out, and as the case of Jarndyce and Jarndyce, 
with all its fatal consequences to so many of the dramatis 
personcie, more and more dominated the scene. 

The circulation of David Copperfield, during its first 
publication in monthly parts, had never gone beyond 
25,000, but, probably to a great extent in consequence 
of the immense success which its predecessor had since 
attained, Bleak House started with a sale of 30,000, to be 
increased before many months were over by another 10,000. 
But even this satisfactory beginning hardly served to 
relieve the author's mind of a certain heaviness and mor- 
bid restlessness which seem, if we may judge from Mr. 
Forster's account, and from his own descriptions of his 
condition, to have come over it at about this time. In a 
letter dated the 7th of March, 1852, Charles Dickens de- 
scribes himself as being in a very unsatisfactory state, and 
says : " Wild ideas are upon me of going to Paris — Rouen — 
Switzerland — somewhere — and writing the remaining two- 
thirds of the next number aloft in some queer inn room. I 
have been hanging over it, and have got restless. Want a 
change, I think. Stupid." Later, he refers to his inability 
to " grind sparks out of this dull blade," and was greatly 
distressed by the deaths of several dear friends, — the Hon. 
Richard Watson of Rockingham (listle, Count D'Orsay, and 
Mrs. Macreadv among others. The "somewhere" which 



xviii INTRODUCTION. 

was visioned in the "wild ideas" just mentioned eventually 
turned out to be Dover, and there, notwithstanding the 
interruptions which were caused by the tour of the Amateur 
Dramatic Company of the Guild of Literature and Art, the 
work went on more smoothly. But the ease of the Copper- 
field days had passed away, never, it may be said, quite to 
return, and Mr. Forster notes that it Avas early in 1853 that 
the '•' overstrain of attempting too much, brought upon him 
by the necessities of his weekly periodical, first became 
apparent in Dickens." Indeed, it became clear at last to 
Dickens himself, even angrily unwilling as he always was 
to admit that he could possibly be doing too much. " Hypo- 
chondriacal whisperings tell me," he wrote, "that I am 
rather overworked. The spring does not seem to fly back 
again directly as it always did when I put my own work 
aside, and had nothing else to do." That he could no longer 
bear easily what he carried so lightly of old, as Mr. Forster 
puts it, is perfectly true, but it seems unfair to cast all the 
blame on the *' necessities of his weekly periodical," which 
was by this time in thorough working order, and, of itself, 
imposed no very serious additional strain upon its editor. 
Charles Dickens's own account of the causes of the over- 
strain from which he was undoubtedly suffering explains 
the reason of it all very plainly. " AVhat with Bleak House 
and Household Words and Child's History ^ and Miss Coutts's 
Home - and the invitations to feasts and festivals, I really 
feel as if my head would split like a fired shell if I remained 
here." A visit to Brighton was tried, but did not mend 
matters much, and in June Charles Dickens went to Bou- 
logne, where he had passed some pleasant time after the 
Dover residence of the previous year, and there Bleak House 
was finished before the end of August, the last two numbers 
being published together in the following month — dates 
which show that the author had again fallen into the con- 
dition of having the printer very closely in attendance on 
his pen. That he was very near an absolute breakdown is 
evidenced by his own remark to Mr. Forster, " If I had sub- 
stituted anybody else's knowledge of myself for my own, 

1 The Child's History of England, which he was at this time dic- 
tating. 

^ At Shepherd's Bush. This was one of the numerous practically 
benevolent Institutions, of which so many are associated with this 
excellent lady's name, and was being generally supervised by Charles 
Dickens. 



INTRODUCTION. xix 

and lingered in London, I never could have got through." 
Local tradition at Broadstairs — it may be remarked, as a 
good instance of the trustworthiness of so many Dickens 
legends — has it that a great part of Bleak House was writ- 
ten at the pleasant " Fort House " on the clift' by the Coast 
Guard station, where Dickens more than once passed the 
summer months, and has even gone so far as to dub the 
building " Bleak House " in consequence. But, as a matter 
of fact, not a line of the book was ever written at Broad- 
stairs. 

The publication of Bleak House was commenced (by 
Messrs. Bradbury & Evans), as we have seen, in March, 
1852, and the story was completed in twenty monthly parts, 
demy octavo, at one shilling each, the last being issued in 
September, 1853, parts 19 and 20 being published in the 
same wrapper. Each part contained two illustrations by 
Hablot Browne, and was issued in a green wrapper, a 
facsimile of the front page of which is given here at page 
xxxvi. A facsimile of the vignette title-page will be found at 
page V. The complete book was published in one volume, 
green cloth, at one guinea, and bore the following dedication : 

DEDICATED 

AS A REMEMBKANCE OF OUR FRIENDLY UNION 

TO MY COMPANIONS 

IN THE 

GUILD OF LITERATURE AND ART. 

The Guild of Literature and Art, it may here be recorded, 
was founded by some of the most distinguished men of letters 
and artists of that day, and its object, as Charles Dickens 
explained in his speech at the farewell dinner to Macready, 
was " to smooth the rugged way of young labourers both in 
literature and the fine arts, and to soften, but by no elee- 
mosynary means, the declining years of meritorious age." 
The dramatic performances which were given in London 
and elsewhere for the benefit of the funds of the Associa- 
tion were highly successful from a pecuniary as well as 
from an artistic point of view, and a very considerable sum 
of money was got together. Unfortunately, owing to some 
absurd clause in the charter of the Guild, nothing could be 
done for ten years or so, and, still more unfortunately, when 
the time for action came, the greater part of the funds were 
spent on bricks and mortar, and three houses were built on 



XX INTRODUCTION. 

a plot of land given by Lord Lytton, then Sir E. B. Lytton, 
at Stevenage. At a dinner which was given at Knebworth 
to celebrate the completion of these unlucky buildings on 
the 29th of August, 1865, Charles Dickens said: "The 
ladies and gentlemen whom we shall invite to occupy the 
houses we have built will never be placed under any social 
disadvantage. They will be invited to occupy them as 
artists, receiving them as a mark of the high respect in 
which they are held by their fellow-workers. As artists 
I hope they will often exercise their calling within those 
walls for the general advantage ; and they will always claim 
on equal terms the hospitality of their generous neighbours." 
Unhappily the houses failed to attract those for whom they 
were intended, and no meritorious age could ever be induced 
to spend its declining years at Stevenage. The other objects 
for which the Guild was founded were also found to be 
unworkable, and the whole scheme turned out to be a com- 
plete failure, except that the Council has from time to time 
been able to assist from its scanty funds members in want 
of help. Charles Dickens, to whom this unfortunate result 
was very distressing, agreed, shortly before his death — I 
was myself Honorary Secretary of the Guild at the time — 
that an attempt should be made to realise the property and 
to divide the proceeds between the Royal Literary Fund 
and the Artists' Benevolent Fund. But, after his death, 
Mr. Forster, who had an undying feud with the Literary 
Fund, brought his influence to bear upon Lord Lytton, 
whose gift of the plot of land on which the houses stand 
was so fenced about with restrictions and conditions as to 
be practically no gift at all, and without whose consent 
nothing could be done, and the scheme fell through. And 
so matters stand with the Guild to this day. 

The preface to the original edition of Bleak House, which 
was dated London, 1853, ran as follows : — 

A few months ago, on a public occasion, a Chancery Judge had 
the kindness to inform me, as one of a company of some hundred 
and fifty men and women not labouring under any suspicions of 
lunacy, that the Court of Chancery, though the shining subject 
of much popular prejudice (at which point I thought the Judge's 
eye had a cast in my direction), was almost immaculate. There 
had been, he admitted, a trivial blemish or so in its rate of progress, • 
but this was exaggerated, and had been entirely owing to the 
" parsimony of the public ; " wliich guilty public, it appeared, had 
been until lately bent in the most determined manner on by no 
means enlarging the number of Chancery Judges appointed — I 



INTRODFCTION. Xxi 

believe by Richard the Second, but any other kina: will do as 
well. 

This seemed to me too profound a joke to be inserted in the 
body of this book, or I should have restored it to Conversation 
Kenge or to Mr. Vholes, with one or other of whom I think it must 
have originated. In such mouths T might have coupled it with an 
apt quotation from one of Shakspeare's Sonnets : — 

My nature is subdued 
To what it works in, like the dyer's hand : 
Pity me then, and wish I were renewed ! 

But as it is wholesome that the parsimonious public should know 
what has been doing, and still is doing, in this connection, I men- 
tion here that everything set forth in these pages concerning the 
Court of Chancery is substantially true, and within the trutli. 
The case of Gridley is in no essential altered from one of actual 
occurrence, made public by a disinterested person who was pro- 
fessionally acquainted with the whole of the monstrous wrong 
from beginning to end. At the present moment there is a suit- 
before the Court which was commenced nearly twenty years ago ; 
in which from thirty to forty counsel have been known to ajipear 
at one time; in which costs have been incurred to the amount of 
seventy thousand poimds; which is a friendly suit; and which is 
(I am assui'ed) no nearer to its termination now than when it was 
first begun. There is another well-known suit in Chancery, not 
yet decided, which was commenced before the close of the last 
century, and in which more than double the amount of seventy 
thousand pounds has been swallowed up in costs. If I wanted 
other authorities for Jarndyce and Jarndyce, I could rain them 
on these pages, to the shame of — a parsimonious public. 

There is only one other point on which I offer a word of remark. 
The possibility of what is called Spontaneous Combustion has been 
denied since the death of Mr. Krook; and my good friend Mr. 
Lewes ^ (quite mistaken, as he soon found, in supposing the thing 
to have been abandoned by all authorities) published some ingen- 
ious letters to me at the time when that event was chronicled, 
arguing that Spontaneous Combustion could not possibly be. I 
have no need to observe that I do not wilfully or negligently mis- 
lead my readers, and that before I wrote that description 1 took 
pains to investigate the subject. There are about thirty cases on 
record, of which the most famous, that of the Countess Cornelia 
de Bandi Cesenate, was minutely investigated and described by 
Giuseppe Bianchini, a prebendary of Verona, otherwise distin- 
guished in letters, who published an account of it at Verona, in 

1 This was Mr. George Hemy Lewes, whose critical essay on Charles 
Dickens, in the Fortnightly Beview for February, 1872, was stigma- 
tised by Mr. Torster as ' ' odious by intolerable assumptions of an 
indulgent superiority," and who, indeed, resembled Lord Macaulay 
in that he was always absolutely ' ' cock-sure ' ' of everything. 



xxii INTRODUCTION. 

1731, which he afterwards republished at Rome. The appear- 
ances beyond all rational doubt observed in that case, are the ap- 
pearances observed in Mr. Krook's case. The next most famous 
instance happened at Rheims, sis years earlier ; and the historian 
in that case is Le Cat, one of the most renowned surgeons pro- 
duced by France. The subject was a woman whose husband was 
ignorantly convicted of having murdered her; but, on solemn 
appeal to a higher court, he was acquitted, because it was shown 
upon the evidence that she had died the death to which this name 
of Spontaneous Combustion is given. I do not think it necessary 
to add to these notable facts, and that general reference to the 
authorities which will be found at page 3'29,i the recorded opinions 
and experiences of distinguished medical professors, French, Eng- 
lish, and Scotch, in more modern days; contenting myself with 
observing that I shall not abandon the facts until there shall have 
been a considerable Spontaneous Combustion of the testimony on 
which human occurrences are usually received. 

In Bleak House, I have purposely dwelt upon the romantic side 
of familiar things. I believe I have never had so many readers as 
in this book. May we meet again. 

In the library edition of 1859 and in the Charles Dickens 
edition of 1868 the preface ends with the words '' familiar 
things," the reference to the circulation of the original 
edition being omitted. 

The Charles Dickens edition contains an additional refer- 
ence to the evidence in favour of spontaneous combustion 
in the form of a footnote which runs thus : " Another case, 
very clearly described by a dentist, occurred at the town of 
Columbus, in the United States of America, quite recently. 
The subject was a German who kept a liquor shop, and was 
an inveterate drunkard." Charles Dickens was as a rule an 
excellent judge of evidence, and it is rather surprising to 
find him putting on record such a very untrustworthy state- 
ment as this. There are many towns of Columbus in the 
United States of America, and the evidence of an unnamed 
dentist as to the case of an equally anonymous saloon-keeper 
can hardly be of much service in support of Giuseppe Bian- 
chini and Le Cat, who, however, fortunately do not greatly 
stand in need of corroboration. 

Oddly enough, in the preface to the Charles Dickens 
edition, the reference to the various authorities quoted in 
the text on this subject appears as " page 27, vol. 2." The 
Charles Dickens edition was only in one volume, and this 
reference, due to the carelessness of whoever saw the edi- 

1 In the present edition, page 484. 



INTRODUCTION. xxiii 

tion through the press, was really that to the page in the 
library edition. 

Frequent reissues of the original edition were made from 
time to time in the same form, in green cloth, now with date, 
now without. In the second series of the cheap edition, 
published by Bradbury & Evaiis in cloth at live shillings, 
BJecik House came third. In the Household Edition of 
Messrs. Chapman & Hall (in paper three shillings, and in 
cloth four shillings) the story occupied Nos. 69 to 96, 440 
pages, and had sixty-one illustrations by F. Barnard. 

The original manuscript is at South Kensington. 

Bleak House, although it no longer holds quite the same 
place in public estimation as its monthly circulation of 
40,000, as compared with the 25,000 of David Copperjield, 
Avould seem at one time to have implied, has always been 
one of the most popular of Charles Dickens's books, and, 
side by side with its popularity, succeeded in exciting quite 
as much contradictory, and often spiteful, criticism as any 
of its fellows — which is saying a good deal. Indeed, a book 
which dealt, in so very plain and outspoken a way, with so 
many extremely controversial subjects, could scarcely have 
failed to arouse a good deal of what Mrs. Hominy's friend 
described as prSju-dlce. 

Lord Denman, for instance, — who had been Chief Justice 
of the Queen's Bench, and was an old friend of Charles 
Dickens, — was very angry indeed with Bleak House, and 
criticised it with considerable acerbity in a series of articles 
which he contributed to the " Standard " newspaper and 
which were republished by Messrs. Longman in 1853 ; aver- 
ring, among other grievances, that the book had some of the 
writer's " old faults in an aggravated form," together with 
"some which have not appeared before." The story Lord 
Denman declared to be " artificial," while " the author's love 
of low life appears to grow upon him. We are detained too 
long in filthy corners, and surprised too unceremoniously 
at finding the delicacy of virtuous sentiment in the lowest 
depths of human degradation." 

But, as is so often the case with critics of Charles Dick- 
ens's books, we have to look elsewhere than to the absolute 
merits or demerits of Bleak House as a story to find the 
real reason of Lord Denman's wrath. In the present in- 
stance the causa teterrima was Mrs. Jellyby. Lord Denman, 
an enthusiastic advocate of the abolition of slavery, over- 
looking the fact that Charles Dickens was at least as good 



xxiv INTRODUCTION. 

an abolitionist as himself, somehow persuaded himself that 
the satire which was directed against the absurdities and 
extravagances of which Borrioboola-Gha was a fair enough 
type, was calculated to " obstruct the great cause of human 
improvement," and "to replunge the world into the most 
barbarous abuse that ever afltlicted it." Without taking the 
trouble to produce any evidence in support of this singular 
contention. Lord Denman continued his accusation in the 
following remarkable manner : " We do not say," and here 
there is at least a touch of candour, " that he actually de- 
fends slavery or the slave trade ; but he takes pains to dis- 
courage, by ridicule, the effort now making to put them 
down. We believe, indeed, that in general terms he expresses 
just hatred for both ; but so do all those who prolit or wish 
to profit by them, and who, by that general professing, pre- 
vent the detail of particulars too atrocious to be endured. 
The disgusting picture of a woman who pretends zeal for 
the happiness of Africa, and is constantly employed in secur- 
ing a life of misery to her own children, is a laboured work 
of art in his present exhibition. If a real likeness, it was 
hardly worth the taking, certainly not worth the publishing, 
nor does the silly exaggeration thrown into it compensate 
for the tiresome labour of contemplating the image of so 
rare an original." Thus — and much more — Lord Denman, 
who was apparently (like many other people) unable to 
perceive that every cause, however good, has always a cer- 
tain number of foolish hangers-on and camp-followers, and 
that it is permissible and possible to laugh at their absurd- 
ities and to satirise their follies, and yet to preserve at the 
same time a complete and perfect respect for, and devotion 
to, the cause itself. 

Similarly, of course, gentlemen interested in the law, as 
administered in the Court of Chancery, pitched upon the 
case of Jarndyce and Jarndyce and the almost savage attack 
on Chancery and all its works and ways as the blot on the 
book, declaring, in the teeth of all sorts of evidence palpa- 
ble and open to all men, that no such case could ever have 
been, and that the whole thing was a monstrous exaggera- 
tion ; while others again insisted that the character of Mr. 
Chadband constituted a direct attack upon religion itself. 
But, somehow or other, the reform of the Court of Chancery 
and its procedure followed closely on the publication of 
Bleak Hoxise, and Mr. Chadband would not be nearly so 
probable now as he was then ; all of Avhich, whether propter 



INTRODUCTION. xxv 

hoc or only jyost hoc, is something to the credit of the author's 
account. 

An advocate of foreign missions sent anonymously to 
Charles Dickens the following remonstrance in tlie matter 
of Jo: "I venture to trespass on your attention with one 
serious query, touching a sentence in the last number of 
Bleak House. Do the supporters of Christian missions to 
the heathen really deserve the attack that is conveyed in 
the sentence about Jo seated in his anguish on the doorstep 
of the Society for the Propagation of the Gospel in Foreign 
Parts ? The allusion is severe, but is it just ? Are such 
boys as Jo neglected ? What are ragged schools, town mis- 
sions, and many of those societies I regret to see sneered at 
in the last number of Household Words ? " The anonymous 
gentleman's allusion is to the passage in Chapter XVI., headed 
" Tom-all-Alone's," where Jo " sits down to breakfast on the 
doorstep of the Society for the Propagation of the Gospel 
in Foreign Parts, and gives it a brush when he has finished, 
as an acknowledgment of the accommodation. He admires 
the size of the edifice, and Avomlers what it's all about. He 
has no idea, poor wretch, of the spiritual destitution of a. 
coral reef in the Pacific, or what it costs to look up the 
precious souls among the cocoanuts and bread fruit." It is 
rather strange to find Charles Dickens answering an anony- 
mous letter. But he did answer it with a directness and 
point which must have made the writer almost wish that he 
had left the matter alone. This was Charles Dickens's vindi- 
cation, dated the 9th of July, 1852 : — 

Sir : — I have received your letter of yesterday's date, and shall 
content myself with a brief reply. 

There was a long time during which benevolent Societies were 
spending immense sums on missions abroad, when there was no 
such thing as a ragged school in England, or any kind of associated 
endeavour to penetrate to those horrible domestic depths in which 
such schools are now to be found, and where they were, to my most 
certain knowledge, neither placed nor discovered by the Society 
for the Propagation of the Gospel in Foreign Parts. 

If you think the balance between the home mission and the 
foreign mission justly held in the present time, T do not. I ab- 
stain irom drawing the strange comparison that might be drawn 
between the sums even now expended in endeavours to remove the 
darkest ignorance and degradation from our very doors, because I 
have some respect for mistakes that may be foinided in a sincere 
wish to do good. But I present a general suggestion of the still- 
existing anomaly (in such a paragraph as that which offends you), 



xxvi INTRODUCTION. 

in the hope of inducing some people to reflect on this matter, and 
to adjust the balance more correctly. I am decidedly of opinion 
that the two works, the home and the foreign, are not conducted 
with an equal hand, and that the home claim is by far the stronger 
and the more pressing of the two. 

Indeed, I have very grave doubts whether a great commercial 
country, holding communication with all parts of the world, can 
better Christianise the benighted portions of it than by the bestowal 
of its wealth and energy on the making of good Christians at home, 
and on the utter removal of neglected and untaught childhood from 
its streets, before it wanders elsewhere. For, if it steadily persist 
in this work, working downward to the lowest, the travellers of all 
grades whom it sends abroad will be good, exemplary, practical 
missionaries, instead of undoers of what the best professed mission- 
aries can do. 

These are my opinions, founded, I believe, on some knowledge 
of facts and some observation. If I could be scared out of them, 
let me add in all good humour, by such easily impressed words as 
" antichristian " or " irreligious," I should think that I deserved 
them in their real signification. 

I have referred in vain to page 312 of " Household Words " for 
the sneer to which you call my attention. Nor have I, I assure 
you, the least idea where else it is to be found. 

I am. Sir, your faithful servant. 

: , ^r ■ :■ f ly!^ 'r^-'\ 

I imagine that the " sneer " which was obvious to the anony- 
mous correspondent, but which, not unnaturally, Charles 
Dickens could not see, was conveyed in the following lines 
of an article called " Dumbledowndeary " (by Mr. G. A. 
Sala), "where there are May meetings of bees humming 
and buzzing quite as much (and quite as profitably perhaps) 
as some of your London May-meeters." If this be the 
"sneer," — and I can- find nothing else that could, by any 
means, be tortured into the semblance of such a thing, — it 
must be owned that, like the celebrated baby in Midsliip- 
man Easy, it is a very little one. 

Among the criticisms which dealt with the book from a 
literary point of view, that of Dean Ramsay, which was con- 
veyed to Mr. Forster in a letter quoted by him in his "Life," 
may be reprinted here as representative of the appreciative 
view. "We have been reading Bleak House aloud," the 
Dean wrote. " Surely it is one of his most powerful and 
successful! What a triumpli is Jo! Uncultured nature is 
there indeed; the intimations of true heart-feeling, the glim- 
merings of higher feeling, all are there ; but everything still 
consistent and in harmony. AVonderful is the genius that 
can show all this, yet keep it only and really part of the 



INTRODUCTION. xxvii 

character itself, low or common as it may be, and use no 
morbid or fictitious colouring. To my mind, nothing in the 
field of fiction is to be lound in English literature surpassing 
the death of Jo." 

On the other hand, a Mr. George Brimley, writing in the 
Spectator of the 24th of September, 1853, was principally 
concerned with the complaint which has commended itself to 
so many highly " genteel " critics since — the complaint that 
Charles Dickens could not draw a gentleman. " Clever he 
undoubtedly is " — JMr. Brimley was good enough to admit 
this much — but "has never yet succeeded in catching a 
tolerable likeness of man or woman whose lot is cast among 
the high-l)orn and wealthy. Whether it is that the lives 
of such present less that is outwardly funny or grotesque, 
less that strikes the eye of a man on the lookout for oddity 
and point, or that he knows nothing of their lives, certain 
it is that his people of station are the vilest daubs ; and Sir 
Leicester Dedlock, Baronet, with his wife and family circle, 
are no exceptions." Bleak House also greatly incensed a 
writer in the United States Magazine and Democratic Review 
(iS"ew York) of September, 1853, who wound up a " slash- 
ing " article with the exhortation " Get up, some one, and 
write a snatch against Bulwer and Dickens ! In sober ear- 
nest, it is not half so difficult as it looks." But "some 
one " seems to have found the task more difficult than it 
appeared to the critic of the United States Magazine. 

It is a little surprising to find a writer in Putnami's 
Monthly Magazine of November, 1853, declaring that '• in 
none of his works are the characters more strongly marked, 
or the plot more loosely and inartistically constructed," for 
I cannot help thinking that the opinion of the vast majority 
of competent critics is that which Mr. Forster expressed so 
forcibly in the following words : " Look back from the last 
to the first page of the present novel, and not even in the 
highest examples of this kind of elaborate care will it be 
found that event leads more closely to event, or that the 
separate incidents have been planned with a more studied 
consideration of the bearing they are severally to have on 
the general result. Nothing is introduced at random, every- 
thing tends to the catastro|)he, the various lines of the plot 
converge and fit to its centre, and to the larger interest all 
the rest is irresistibly drawn. . . . Chance words, or the 
deeds of chance people, to appearance irrelevant, are found 
everywhere influencing the course taken by a train of inci- 



xxviii INTRODUCTION. 

dents of which the issue is life or death, happiness or 
misery, to men and women perfectly unknown to them, and 
to whom they are unknown." And yet Mr. Forster was not 
altogether pleased with the book; holding, indeed, that it 
" suffered by the very completeness with which its Chancery 
moral is worked out," and that the "romantic side of fa- 
miliar things," which it was Charles Dickens's purpose to 
dwell upon, was, in fact, "the romance of discontent and 
misery, with a very restless dissatisfied moral, and is too 
much brought about by agencies disagreeable and sordid." 
After all, the ''taste and fancy" of the reader, as Mr. 
Samuel Weller would have expressed it, have more to do 
with the permanent success of a book than the judgments 
of all the critics — able and otherv/ise. 

The dangers which attend a too free use as models of 
even a portion of the characteristics of people well-known 
to the world, and the inevitable tendency of the half- 
instructed public to take the figure, for only a small por- 
tion of which the unfortunate original may have sat, as a 
finished portrait and a capital likeness, were rather painfully 
exemplified in Bleak House. Walter Savage Landor had 
no cause to regret his identification with Lawrence Boythorn, 
but that so selfish, unprincipled, and despicable a personage 
as Harold Skimpole should have been given so many of the 
characteristics of Leigh Hunt as to make the likeness be- 
tween them in many respects obvious to everybody, naturally 
gave great pain to the sensitive man of letters. Originally, 
Mr. Forster tells us, the first sketch was even more like the 
original than that which was published after having been 
toned down at his suggestion and that of Procter. But, as 
Mr. Forster goes on to say, although the alterations were con- 
siderable, the radical wrong remained. Hunt's " gay and 
ostentatious wilfulness in the humouring of a subject," as 
Charles Dickens described it in later years, seemed just the 
" airy quality " which the novelist required for his fictitious 
character, but it was unfortunate that he should have been 
tempted to make so prominent a use of what Mr. Forster 
calls Hunt's philosophy of moneyed obligations. It was 
indeed unlucky that one especial characteristic of Harold 
Skimpole in this direction should also have been, in a differ- 
ent way, it is true, an especial characteristic of Leigh Hunt. 
Mr. Thornton Hunt, in his Introduction to his father's 
Autobiography, describes it thus : " He was accused of 
improvidence, and he admitted incapacities for computa- 



INTRODUCTION. xxix 

tion in matters of money, or anything else, which sounded 
very like a reluctant confession. . . . His so-called improvi- 
dence resulted partly from actual disappointment in pro- 
fessional undertakings, partly from a real incapacity to 
understand any subjects when they were reduced to figures." 
And again, '• He had no aptitude for material science, and 
always retained a very precarious grasp of mere dry facts ; 
which, indeed, in proportion as they tended to the material 
or the hard, he almost disliked: the result was, that he 
viewed all things as in a mirror, and chiefly as they were 
reflected in books or illuminated by literary commentary." 
It is not surprising that with so many points of contact 
between the real man and the fictitious character part of 
the likeness was seen at once, and the rest promptly in- 
ferred. As Mr. James Payn said on the subject of this 
" unintentional wrong," as he described it in an article in 
the Cornhill Magazine of March, 1884, '' The likeness was, 
in some points, too striking to escape recognition, and the 
others were taken for granted, whereat both painter and 
sitter were cruelly pained." 

I have not found any printed record of the just complaints 
of the sitter, but the painter has left us the frankest and 
fullest expression of his regret. "Separate in your own 
mind," he wrote to Hunt himself with wliat Mr. Forster calls 
eager earnestness, "what you see of yourself from what 
other people tell you that they see. As it has given you 
so much pain, I take it at its worst, and say I am deeply 
sorry, and that I feel I did wrong in doing it. I should 
otherwise have taken it at its best, and ridden off upon 
what I strongly feel to be the truth, that there is nothing 
in it that should have given you pain . . . the character is 
not you, for there are traits in it common to fifty thousand 
people besides, and I did not fancy you would ever recog- 
nise it. Under similar disguises my own father and mother 
are in my books, and you might as well see your likeness in 
Micawber." 

Finally, after the publication of the posthumous edition 
of Leigh Hunt's Autobiography ^ with the Introduction by 
his son, Thornton Hunt, Charles Dickens published in num- 
ber 35 of the First Series of All the Year Round, dated the 
24th of December, 1859, the following article which, as his 
own view of the matter deliberately given to the public may 
be fitly reprinted in this place : — 

1 Leigh Huut died at Putney on the 27tli of August, 1859. 



XXX INTRODUCTION. 



LEIGH HUNT. A REMONSTRAXCE. 

" The sense of beauty and gentleness, of moral beauty and faith- 
ful gentleness, grew upon him as the clear evening closed in. When 
he went to visit his relative at Putney, he still carried with him 
his work, and the books he more immediately wanted. Although 
his bodily powers had been giving way, his most conspicuous quali- 
ties, his memory for books, and his affection remained ; and when 
his hair was white, when his ample chest had grown slender, when 
the very proportion of his height had visibly lessened, his step was 
still ready, and his dark eyes brightened at every happy ex]3ression, 
and at every thought of kindness. Mis death was simply exhaus- 
tion : he broke oft' his work to lie down and repose. So gentle was 
the final ajiproach, that he scarcely recognised it until the very last, 
and then it came without terrors. His physical suffering had not 
been severe ; at the latest hour he said that his only uneasiness 
was failing breath. And that failing breath was used to express 
his sense of the inexhaustible kindness he had received from the 
family who had been so unex})eotedly made his nurses — to draw 
from one of his sons, by minute, eager, and searching questions, all 
that he could learn about the latest vicissitudes and growing hopes 
of Italy, — to ask the friends and children arovmd him for news of 
those whom he loved, — and to send love and messages to the ab- 
sent who loved him." 

Thus, with a manly simplicity and filial affection, wiites the 
eldest son of Leigh Hunt in recording his father's death. These 
are the closing words of a new edition of '• The Autobiography of 
Leigh Hunt " published by Messrs. Smith and Elder, of Cornhill, 
revised by that son, and enriched with an introductory chapter of 
remarkable beauty and tenderness. The son's first presentation 
of his father to the reader, " rather tall, straight as an arrow, look- 
ing slenderer than he really was ; his hair black and shining, and 
slightly inclined to wave ; his head high, his forehead straight and 
white, his eyes black and sparkling, his general complexion dark ; 
in his whole carriage and manner an extraordinary degree of life," 
completes the picture. It is the picture of the flourishing and fad- 
ing away of man that is born of a woman and hath but a short 
time to live. 

In his presentation of his father's moral nature and intellectual 
qualities, Mr. Hunt is no less faithful and no less touching. Those 
who knew Leigh Hunt will see the bright face and hear the musi- 
cal voice again, when he is recalled to them in this passage : " Even 
at seasons of the greatest depression in his fortunes, he always 
attracted many visitors, but still not so much for any rejiute that 
attended him as for his personal qualities. Few men were more 
attractive in society, whether in a large company or over the fire- 
side. His manners were peculiarly animated; his conversation, 
varied, ranging over a great field of subjects, was moved and called 
forth by the response of his companion, be that companion phi- 
losopher or student, sage or boy, man or woman ; and he was equally 



INTRODUCTION. xxxi 

ready for the most lively topics or for the gravest reflections — his 
expression easily adapting itself to the tone of his companion's 
mind. With much freedom of manners, he combined a spontane- 
ous courtesy that never failed, and a considerateness derived from 
a ceaseless kindness of heart that invariably fascinated even 
strangers." Or in this : " His animation, his sympathy with what 
was gay and pleasurable, his avowed doctrine of cultivating cheer- 
fulness, were manifest on the surface, and could be appreciated by 
those who knew him in society, most probably even exaggerated 
as salient traits, on which he himself insisted ?iv7/j a sort of gay and 
osle ntatiouf; wilfulness. ' ' 

'I'he last words describe one of the most captivating peculiarities 
of a most original and engaging man, better than any other words 
could. 'Die reader is besought to observe them, for a reason that 
shall presently be given. Lastly: "The anxiety to recognise the 
right of others, the tendency to ' refine,' which was noted by an 
early school companion, and the propensity to elaborate every 
thought, made him, along with the direct argument by which he 
sustained his own conviction, recognise and almost admit all that 
might l)e said on the opposite side." For these reasons, and for 
others suggested with equal felicity, and with equal fidelity, the 
son writes of the father : " It is most desirable that his qualities 
sliould be known as they were ; for such deficiencies as he had are 
the honest explanation of his mistakes ; while, as the reader may 
see from his writing and his conduct, they are not, as the faults of 
which he was accused would be, incompatible with the noblest 
faculties both of head and heart. To know Leigh Hunt as he was, 
was to hold him in reverence and love." 

These quotations are made here with a special object. It is not 
that the personal testimony of one who knew Leigh Hunt well, 
may be borne to their truthfulness. It is not that it may be 
recorded in these pages, as in his son's introductory chapter, that 
his life was of the most amiable and domestic kind, that his wants 
were few, that his way of life was frugal, that he was a man of 
small expenses, no ostentations, a diligent labourer, and a secluded 
man of letters. It is not that the inconsiderate and forgetful may 
be reminded of his wrongs and sufferings in the days of the Re- 
gency, and of the national disgrace of his imprisonment. It is not 
that their forbearance may be entr-eated for his grave, in right of 
his graceful fancy or his political labours and endurances, though 

Not only we, the latest seed of Time, 

New men , that in the flying of a wheel 

Cry down the past, not only we, that prate 

Of rights and wrongs, have loved the people well. 

It is that a duty may be done in the most direct way possible. 
.\n act of plain, clear duty. 

Four or five years ago, the writer of these lines was much pained 
by accidentally encountering a printed statement, "that Mr. Leigh 
Hunt was the original of Harold Skimpole in Bleak House." The 



xxxii INTRODUCTION. 

writer of these lines is the author of that book. The statement came 
fi'om America. It is no disrespect to that country, in which the 
writer has, perhaps, as many friends and as true an interest as any 
man that lives, good-humouredly to state the fact, that he has, now 
and then, been the subject of paragraphs in transatlantic news- 
papers, more surprisingly destitute of all foundation in truth than 
the wildest delusions of the wildest lunatics. For i-easons born of 
this experience, he let the thing go by. 

But, since Mr. Leigh Hunt's death, the statement has been 
revived in England. The delicacy and generosity evinced in its 
revival, are for the rather late consideration of its revivers. The 
fact is this : 

Exactly those graces and charms of manner which are remem- 
bered in the words we have quoted, were remembered by the 
author of the work of fiction in question, when he drew the char- 
acter in question. Above all other things, that "sort of gay and 
ostentatious wilfulness " in the humouring of a subject, which had 
many a time delighted him, and impressed him as being unspeak- 
ably whimsical and attractive, was the airy quality he wanted for 
the man he invented. Partly for this reason, and partly (he has 
since often grieved to think) for the pleasure it afforded him to find 
that delightful manner reproducing itself under his hand, he yielded 
to the temptation of too often making the character apeak like his 
old friend. He no more thought, God forgive him ! that the 
admired original would ever be charged with the imaginary vices 
of the fictitious creature, than he has himself ever thought of 
charging the blood of Desdemona and Othello on the innocent 
Academy model who sat for lago's leg in the picture. Even as to 
the mere occasional manner, he meant to be so cautious and con- 
scientious, that he privately referred the proof sheets of the first 
number of that book to two intimate literary friends of Leigh 
Hunt (both still living), and altered the whole of that part of the 
text on their discovering too strong a resemblance to his " way." 

He cannot see the son lay his wreath on the father's tomb, and 
leave him to the possibility of ever thinking that the present words 
might have righted the father's memory, and were left unwritten. 
He cannot know that his own son may have to explain his father 
when folly or malice can wound his heart no more, and leave this 
task undone. 

Mr. Payn says, in the article I have already quoted, 
"Nothing is more common than for an author to paint in 
this way." That it is also extremely undesirable, except 
within very narrow and well-defined limits, this unfortunate 
business proves with undeniable clearness. 

It is noticeable that many of the localities in London 
which were described in Bleak House under fictitious names, 
or under no names at all, are much more readily recognisa- 
ble than is the case with scenes similarly described in many 



INTRODUCTION. xxxiii 

of Charles Dickens's other books. Thus, although Lord 
Shaftesbury's Act and the wholesale destruction and altera- 
tion of the squalid neighbourhoods about Clare Market and 
Drury Lane, Chancery Lane and Carey Street, have cleared 
away Tom-all-Alone's, there is no difficulty whatever in 
identifying Took's Court, Cursitor Street, with Mr. Snags- 
by's Cook's Court; or Chichester Eents, leading from the 
east side of New Square, Lincoln's Inn, to Chancery Lane, 
with the court in which Mr. Krook came to such a bad end ; 
or Russell Court, between Catherine Street and Drury Lane, 
as the thoroughfare whence " a reeking little tunnel of a 
court" gave access to the iron gate of the "hemmed-in 
churchyard, pestiferous and obscene," the " beastly scrap of 
ground " in which the remains of Captain Hawdon received 
Christian burial. Russell Court has been cleaned up of late, 
and the horrible little churchyard has been converted into 
an asphalted playground for the children of the neighbour- 
hood, but the archway, and the tunnel, and the steps, are 
still there. Mr. Tulkinghorn's chambers were certainly not 
far distant from number 58 Lincoln's Inn Fields, where Mr. 
Forster lived; a.nd I have always thought that, although 
the surroundings of the two houses are altogether different, 
and although there was, of course, not the faintest likeness 
between their occupants, Chesney Wold bears much more 
than an accidental resemblance — especially in respect of 
the long drawing-room and the terraced garden walk — to 
Rockingham Castle in Northamptonshire, the residence of 
the Hon. Mr. and Mrs. Richard Watson, to whom David 
Copperjield was dedicated. 

As might have been expected from the dramatic nature 
of the story. Bleak House has frequently attracted the more 
or less ingenious adapter for the stage. The accurate and 
reliable Mr. F. G. Kilton, in his Dickensiana, gives a list of 
five plays taken from the novel, the most important of which 
is the three-act " Jo," of Mr. J. P. Burnett, which was pro- 
duced in the seventies at the Globe Theatre, London, and 
afterwards met with success all over the world. This, if it 
did not in itself rise beyond the usual level of such things, 
was remarkable for the thoroughl}^ admirable and genuinely 
pathetic performance of Jo by Miss Jennie Lee, a perform- 
ance which may take rank with the very best of the stage 
presentations of Dickens characters, and by another excellent 
piece of work in the Hortense of Miss Dolores Drummond. 
Of " Poor Jo," a drama in three acts, by Mr. Terry Hurst, 



xxxiv INTRODUCTION. 

and of " Move On, or Jo the Outcast," also in three acts, by 
Mr. James Mortimer, I cannot speak, as they have not been 
published, and I never saw them acted. 

The other two plays are before me as I write — the one 
a four-act drama, called " Bleak House, or Poor Jo," by Mr. 
George Lander, which was first performed at the Pavilion 
Theatre, London, on the 27th of March, 1876 ; the other, 
also in four acts, entitled " Lady Dedlock's Secret," by 
J. Palgrave Simpson, which was first performed in the 
country in the beginning of 1884 by the Amateur Dramatic 
Company, and afterwards produced, with Lady Monckton 
as Lady Dedlock, at the Opera Comique Theatre, in Lon- 
don, on the 26th of March of the same year. Mr. Lander's 
work was poor enough, but the liberties which Mr. Palgrave 
Simpson allowed himself to take with his author were really 
unjustifiable, even in a play which was described as being 
" founded on an episode in Charles Dickens's Bleak House." 
It is perhaps excusable that Krook should have murdered 
Mr. Tulkinghorn and have been denounced by Jo, who was 
a witness of the transaction, also that Jo should, among 
many other remarkable figures of speech, describe Lady 
Dedlock as " she who said she was a servant, though with 
manners not conform ; " but the conclusion of the play, in 
which Lady Dedlock (out of her mind) is escorted back to 
Chesney Wold by Jo, and has a regular, conventional, knock- 
about, stage death-scene, while Jo — who, like Tiny Tim, 
does not die — weeps by her side, to form a picture, is a 
little too much. Mr. Palgrave Simpson proved himself on 
so many other occasions so adroit a hand at dramatic cook- 
ery, that it is surprising that he should have concocted such 
a hash as this, while it is still more astonishing that any- 
body should have thought it worth serving up to the public. 

CHARLES DICKENS 

THE YOUNGER. 



FACSIMILE OF THE TITLE-PAGE TO THE FIRST EDITION, 



BLEAK HOUSE. 



CHARLES DICKENS. 



WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY H. K. BROWNE. 



LONDON: 

BRADBUEY AND EVANS, 11, BOUVEBIE STREET. 

1853. 



FACSIMILE OF THE ORIGINAL WRAPPER TO THE FIRST PART. 



No. 1. 



MARCH. 



Price Is. 




LONDON : BRADBURY & EVANS, BOUVERIE STREET. 

AGENTS : J. MENZIES, EDINBURGH ; MURRAY AND. SON, GLASGOW ; J. M'GLASHAN, DUBUII. 

@° NOTICE is hereby given that the. Author of "BLEAK HOUSE " reserves to 
himself the right of Duhlishing a Translation in France. 



BLEAK HOUSE. 



CHAPTER I. 

IN CHANCERY. 

London. Michaelmas Term lately over, and the Lord Chan- 
cellor sitting in Lincoln's Inn Hall. Implacable November weather. 
As much mild in the streets, as if the waters had but newly retired 
from the face of the earth, and it would not be wonderful to meet 
a Megalosaurus, forty feet long or so, waddling like an elephantine 
lizard up Holborn Hill. Smoke lowering down from chimney-pots, 
making a soft black drizzle, with flakes of soot in it as big as full- 
grown snow-flakes — • gone into mourning, one might imagine, for 
the death of the sun. Dogs, undistinguishable in mire. Horses, 
scarcely better ; splashed to their veiy blinkers. Foot j^assengers, 
jostling one another's umbrellas, in a general infection of ill-temper, 
and losing their foot-hold at street-corners, where tens of thousands 
of other foot passengers have been slipping and sliding since the 
day broke (if the day ever broke), adding new deposits to the 
crust upon crust of mud, sticking at those points tenaciously to 
the pavement, and accumulating at compound interest. 

Fog everywhere. Fog up the river, where it flows among green 
aits and meadows ; fog down the river, where it rolls defiled among 
the tiers of shipping, and the waterside pollutions of a great (and 
dirty) city. Fog on the Essex marshes, fog on the Kentish heights. 
Fog creeping into the cabooses of collier-brigs ; fog lying out on the 
yards, and hovering in the rigging of great sliijis ; fog drooping on 
the gunwales of barges and small boats. Fog in the eyes and 
throats of ancient Greenwich pensioners, wheezing by the firesides 
of their wards ; fog in the stem and bowl of the afternoon pipe of 
the -wrathful skipper, down in his close cabin ; fog cruelly pinching 
the toes and fingers of his shivering little 'prentice boy on deck. 
Chance people on the bridges peeping over the parapets into a 
nether sky of fog, with fog all round them, as if they were up in a 
balloon, and hanging in the misty clouds. 



2 BLEAK HOUSE. 

Gas looming through the fog in divers places in the streets, much 
as the sun may, from the spongey fields, be seen to loom by hus- 
bandman and ploughboy. Most of the shops lighted two hours 
before their time — as the gas seems to know, for it has a haggard 
and unwilling look. 

The raw afternoon is rawest, and the dense fog is densest, and 
the muddy streets are muddiest, near that leaden-headed old 
obstruction, appropriate ornament for the threshold of a leaden- 
headed old corporation : Temple Bar. And hard by Temple Bar, 
in Lincoln's Inn Hall, at the very heart of the fog, sits the Lord 
High Chancellor in his High Court of Chancery. 

Never can there come fog too thick, never can there come mud 
and mire too deep, to assort with the groping and floundering con- 
dition which this High Court of Chancery, most pestilent of hoary 
sinners, holds, this day, in the sight of heaven and earth. 

On such an afternoon, if ever, the Lord High Chancellor ought 
to be sitting here — as here he is — with a foggy glory round his 
head, softly fenced in with crimson cloth and curtains, addressed 
by a large advocate with great whiskers, a little voice, and an 
interminable brief, and outwardly directing his contemplation to 
the lantern in the roof, where he can see nothing but fog. On such 
an afternoon, some score of members of the High Court of Chancery 
bar ought to be — as here they are — mistily engaged in one of 
the ten thousand stages of an endless cause, tripping one another 
up on slippery precedents, groping knee-deep in technicalities, nui- 
ning their goat-hair and horse-hair warded heads against walls of 
words, and making a pretence of equity with serious faces, as 
players might. On such an afternoon, the various solicitors in the 
cause, some two or three of whom have inherited it from their 
fathers, who made a fortune by it, ought to be — as are they not ? 
— ranged in a line, in a long matted well (but you might look in 
vain for Truth at the bottom of it), between the registrar's red 
table and the silk gowns, with bills, cross-bills, answers, rejoinders, 
injunctions, attidavits, issues, references to masters, masters' reports, 
mountains of costly nonsense, piled before them. Well may the 
court be dim, with wasting candles here and there ; well may the 
fog hang heavy in it, as if it would never get out ; well may 
tlie stained glass windows lose their colour, and admit no light of 
day into the place ; well may the uninitiated from the streets, who 
peep in through the glass panes in the door, be deterred from 
entrance by its owlish aspect, and by the drawl languidly echoing 
to the roof from the padded dais where the Lord High Chancellor 
looks into the lantern that has no light in it, and where the attend- 
ant wigs are all stuck in a fog-bank ! This is the Court of Chan- 



BLEAK HOUSE. 3 

eery ; which has its decaying houses and its blighted lands in 
every shire; which has its worn-out lunatic in every madhouse, 
and its dead in every churchyard ; which has its ruined suitor, 
with his slipshod heels and threadbare dress, borrowing and beg- 
ging through the round of every man's acquaintance ; which gives 
to uiouied might the means abundantly of wearying out the right ; 
which so exhausts finances, patience, courage, hope ; so overthrows 
the brain and breaks the heart ; that there is not an honourable 
man among its practitioners who would not give — who does not 
often give — the warning, " Suffer any wrong that can be done 
vpu, rather than come here ! " 
f Who happen to be in the Lord Chancellor's court this murky 
afternoon besides the Lord Chancellor, the counsel in the cause, 
two or three counsel who are never in any cause, and the well of 
solicitors before mentioned ? There is the registrar below the 
Judge, in wig and gown ; and there are two or three maces, or 
petty-bags, or privy-piu'ses, or whatever they may be, in legal 
court suits. These are all yawning ; for no crumb of amusement 
ever falls from Jarndyce and Jarndyce (the cause in hand), 
which was squeezed dry years upon years ago. The short-hand 
writers, the reporters of the court, and the reporters of the news- 
papers, invariably decamp with the rest of the regulars when Jarn- 
dyce and Jarndyce comes on. Their places are a blank. Standing 
on a seat at the side of the hall, the better to peer into the cur- 
tained sanctuary, is a little mad old woman in a squeezed bonnet, 
who is always in court, from its sitting to its rising, and always 
expecting some incomprehensible judgment to be given in her 
favour. Some say she really is, or was, a party to a suit ; but no 
one knows for certain, because no one cares. She carries some 
small litter in a reticule which she calls her documents ; principally 
consisting of paper matches and dry lavender. A sallow prisoner 
has come up, in custody, for the half-dozenth time, to make a 
personal application " to purge himself of his contempt ; " which, 
being a solitary surviving executor who has fallen into a state of 
conglomeration about accounts of which it is not pretended that he 
had ever any knowledge, he is not at all likely ever to do. In the 
meantime his prospects in life are ended. Another ruined suitor, 
who periodically appears from Shropshire, and breaks out into 
efforts to address the Chancellor at the close of the day's business, 
and who can by no means be made to understand that the Chan- 
cellor is legally ignorant of his existence after making it desolate 
for a quarter of a century, plants himself in a good place and keeps 
an eye on the Judge, ready to call oiit " My Lord ! " in a voice of 
sonorous complaint, on the instant of his rising. A few lawyers' 



4 BLEAK HOUSE. 

clerks and others who know this suitor by sight, linger, on the 
chance of his furnishing some fun, and enlivening the dismal 
weather a little. J 

Jarndyce and Jarndyce drones on. This scarecrow of a suit has, 
in course of time, become so complicated, that no man alive knows 
what it means. The parties to it understand it least ; but it has 
been observed that no two Chancery lawyers can talk about it for 
five minutes, without coming to a total disagreement as to all the 
premises. Innumerable children have been born into the cause ; 
innumerable young people have married into it ; innumerable old 
people have died out of it. Scores of persons have deliriously 
found themselves made parties in Jarndyce and Jarndyce, without 
knowing how or why ; whole families have inherited legendary 
hatreds with the suit. The little plaintiff or defendant, who was 
promised a new rocking-horse when Jarndyce and Jarndyce should 
be settled, has grown up, possessed himself of a real horse, and 
trotted away into the other world. Fair wards of court have faded 
into mothers and grandmothers ; a long procession of Chancellors 
has come in and gone out ; the legion of bills in the suit have been 
transformed into mere bills of mortality ; there are not tliree 
Jarndyces left upon the earth perhaps, since old Tom Jarndyce in 
despair blew his brains out at a coffee-house in Chancery Lane ; but 
Jarndyce and Jarndyce still drags its dreary length before the Court, 
perennially hopeless. 

Jarndyce and Jarndyce has passed into a joke. That is the only 
good that has ever come of it. It has been death to many, 
but Tt is a joke in the profession. Every master in Chancery 
has had a reference out of it. Every Chancellor was " in it," for 
somebody or other, when he was counsel at the bar. Good things 
have been said about it by blue-nosed, bulbous-shoed old benchers, 
in select port-wine committee after dinner in hall. Articled clerks 
have been in the habit of fleshing their legal wit upon it. The 
last Lord Chancellor handled it neatly, when, correcting Mr. 
Blowers the eminent silk gown who said that such a thing might 
happen when the sky rained potatoes, he observed, "or when we 
get through Jarndyce and Jarndyce, Mr. Blowers ; " — a pleasantry 
that particularly tickled the maces, bags, and purses. 

How many people out of the suit, Jarndyce and Jarndyce has 
stretched forth its unwholesome hand to spoil and corrupt, would 
be a very wide question. From the master, upon whose impaling 
tiles reams of dusty warrants in Jarndyce and Jarndyce have grimly 
writhed into many shapes ; down to the copying-clerk in the Six 
Clerks' Office, who has copied his tens of thousands of Chancery- 
folio-pages under that eternal heading ; no man's natiu'e has been 



BLEAK HOUSE. 6 

made the better by it. In trickery, evasion, procrastination, spolia- 
tion, botheration, under false pretences of all sorts, there are influ- 
ences that can never come to good. The very solicitors' boys who 
have kept the wretched suitors at bay, by protesting time out of 
mind that Mr. Chizzle, Mizzle, or otherwise, was particularly engaged 
and had appointments until dinner, may have got an extra moral 
twist and shuffle into themselves out of Jarndyce and Jarndyce. 
The receiver in the cause has acquired a goodly sum of money by 
it, but has acquired too a distrust of his own mother, and a con- 
tempt for his own kind. Chizzle, Mizzle, and otherwise, have 
lapsed into a habit of vaguely promising themselves that they will 
look into that outstanding little matter, and see what can be done 
for Drizzle — who was not well used — when Jarndyce and Jarn- 
dyce shall be got out of the office. Shirking and sharking, in all 
their many varieties, have been sown broadcast by the ill-fated 
cause ; and even those who have contemplated its history from the 
outermost circle of such evil, have been insensibly tempted into a 
loose way of letting bad things alone to take their o^vn bad course, 
and a loose belief that if the world go wrong, it was, in some off- 
hand manner, never meant to go right. 

Thus, in the midst of the mud and at the heart of the fog, sits 
the Lord High Chancellor in his High Court of Chancery. 

" Mr. Tangle," says the Lord High Chancellor, latterly something 
restless under the eloquence of that learned gentleman. 

" Mlud," says Mr. Tangle. Mr. Tangle knows more of Jarndyce 
and Jarndyce than anybody. He is famous for it — supposed never 
to liave read anything else since he left school. 

" Have you nearly concluded your argument 1 " 

"Mlud, no — variety of points — feel it my duty tsubmit — 
ludship," is the reply that slides out of Mr. Tangle. 

"Several members of the bar are still to be heard, I believe?" 
says the Chancellor, with a slight smile. 

Eighteen of Mr. Tangle's learned friends, each armed with a 
little summary of eighteen hundred sheets, bob up like eighteen 
hammers in a piano-forte, make eighteen bows, and drop into their 
eighteen places of obscurity. 

" We will proceed with the hearing on Wednesday fortnight," 
says the Chancellor. For, the question at issue is only a question 
of costs, a mere bud on the forest tree of the parent suit, and 
really will come to a settlement one of these days. 

The Chancellor rises ; the bar rises ; the prisoner is brought 
forward in a hurry ; the man from Shropshire cries, " My lord ! " 
Maces, bags, and purses, indignantly proclaim silence, and frown at 
the man from Shropshire. 



6 BLEAK HOUSI;, 

"In reference," proceeds the Chancellor, still on Jarndyce and 
Jarndyce, " to the young girl " 

" Begludship's pardon — boy," says Mr. Tangle, prematurely. 

" In reference," proceeds the Chancellor, with extra distinctness, 
"to the young girl and boy, the two young people," 

(Mr. Tangle crushed.) 

" Whom I directed to be in attendance to-day, and who are now 
in my private room, I will see them and satisiFy myself as to the 
expediency of making the order for their residing with their uncle." 

Mr. Tangle on his legs again. 

" Begludshiji's pardon — dead." 

" With their," Chancellor looking through his double eye-glass 
at the papers on his desk, "grandfather." 

" Begludship's pardon — victim of rash action — brains." 

Suddenly a very little counsel, with a terrific bass voice, arises, 
fully inflated, in the back settlements of the fog, and says, " Will 
your lordship allow me? I appear for him. He is a cousin, 
several times removed. I am not at the moment prepared to 
inform the Court in what exact remove he is a cousin ; but he is a 
cousin." 

Leaving this address (delivered like a sepulchral message) ringing 
in the rafters of the roof, the very little counsel drops, and the fog 
knows him no more. Eveiybody looks for him. Nobody can see 
him. 

" I will speak with both the young people," says the Chancellor 
anew, " and satisfy myself on the subject of their residing with 
their cousin. I will mention the matter to-morrow morning when 
I take my seat." 

The Chancellor is about to bow to the bar, when the prisoner is 
presented. Nothing can possibly come of the prisoner's conglomer- 
ation, but his being sent back to prison ; which is soon done. The 
man from Shropshire ventures another renionstrative " My lord ! " 
but the Chancellor, being aware of him, has dexterously vanished. 
Everybody else quickly vanishes too. A battery of blue bags is 
loaded with heavy charges of papers and carried off" by clerks ; the 
little mad old woman marches off with her documents ; the empty 
court is locked up. If all the injustice it has committed, and all 
the misery it has caused, could only be locked up with it, and the 
whole burnt away in a great funeral pyre, — why, so much the 
better for other parties than the parties in Jarndyce and Jarndyce ! 



BLEAK HOUSE. 7 

CHAPTER II. 

IN FASHION. 

It is but a glimpse of the world of fashion that we want on this 
same miry afternoon. It is not so unlike the Court of Chancery, 
but tliat we may pass from the one scene to the other, as the crow 
flies. Both the world of fashion and the Court of Chancery are 
things of precedent and usage ; over-sleeping Rip Van Winkles, who 
have i^layed at strange games through a deal of thundery weather ; 
sleeping beauties, whom the Knight will wake one day, when all 
the stopped spits in the kitchen shall begin to turn prodigiously ! 

It is not a large world. Relatively even to this world of ours, 
which has its limits too (as your Highness shall find when you 
have made the tour of it, and are come to the brink of the void 
beyond), it is a very little speck. There is much good in it ; there 
are many good and true people in it ; it has its appointed place. 
But the evil of it is, that it is a world wrapped up in too much 
jeweller's cotton and fine wool, and cannot hear the rushing of the 
larger worlds, and cannot see them as they circle round the sun. 
It is a deadened world, and its growth is sometimes unhealthy for 
want of air. 

My Lady Dedlock has returned to her house in town for a few 
days previous to her departure for Paris, where her ladyship intends 
to stay some weeks ; after which her movements are uncertain. 
The fashionable intelligence says so, for the comfort of the Paris- 
ians, and it knows all fashionable things. To know things other- 
\vise, were to be unfashionable. My Lady Dedlock has been down 
at what she calls, in familiar conversation, her " place " in Lincoln- 
shire. The waters are out in Lincolnshire. An arch of the bridge 
in the park has been sapped and sopped away. The adjacent low- 
lying ground, for half a mile in breadth, is a stagnant river, with 
melancholy trees for islands in it, and a surface punctured all over, 
all day long, with falling rain. My Lady Dedlock's " place " has 
been extremely dreary. The weather, for many a day and night, 
has been so wet that the trees seem wet through, and the soft 
loppings and prunings of the woodman's axe can make no crash or 
crackle as they fall. The deer, looking soaked, leave quagmires, 
where they pass. The shot of a rifle loses its sharpness in the 
moist air, and its smoke moves in a tardy little cloud towards 
the green rise, coppice-topped, that makes a background for the 
falling rain. The view from my Lady Dedlock's own windows is 
alternately a lead-coloured view, and a view in Indian ink. The 
vases on the stone terrace in the foreground catch the rain all day ; 



8 BLEAK HOUSE. 

and the heavy drops fall, drip, drip, drip, upon the broad flagged 
pavement, called, from old time, the Ghost's Walk, all night. On 
Sundays, the little church in the park is mouldy ; the oaken pulpit 
breaks out into a cold sweat ; and there is a general smell and taste 
as of the ancient Dedlocks in their graves. My Lady Dedlock 
(who is childless), looking out in the early twilight from her boudoir 
at a keeper's lodge, and seeing the light of a fire upon the latticed 
panes, and smoke rising from the chimney, and a child, chased by 
a woman, running oi;t into the rain to meet the shining figure of a 
wrapped-up man coming through the gate, has been put quite 
out of temper. My Lady Dedlock says she has been " bored to 
death." 

Therefore my Lady Dedlock has come away from the place in 
Lincolnshire, and has left it to the rain, and the crows, and the 
rabbits, and the deer, and the partridges and pheasants. The 
pictures of the Dedlocks past and gone have seemed to vanish into 
the damp walls in mere lowness of spirits, as the housekeeper has 
passed along the old rooms, shutting up the shutters. And when 
they will next come forth again, the fashionable intelligence — 
which, like the fiend, is omniscient of the past and present, but not 
the future — cannot yet undertake to say. 

Sir Leicester Dedlock is only a baronet, but there is no mightier 
baronet than he. His family is as old as the hills, and infinitely 
more respectable. He has a general opinion that the world might 
get on without hills, but would be done wp without Dedlocks. He 
would on the whole admit Nature to be a good idea (a little low, 
perhaps, when not enclosed with a park-fence), but an idea depend- 
ent for its execution on your great county families. He is a gentle- 
man of strict conscience, disdainful of all littleness and meanness, 
and ready, on the shortest notice, to die any death you may please 
to mention rather than give occasion for the least impeachment of 
his integrity. He is an honourable, obstinate, truthful, high- 
spirited, intensely prejudiced, perfectly unreasonable man. 

Sir Leicester is twenty years, full measure, older than my Lady. 
He will never see sixty-five again, nor perhaps sixty-six, nor yet 
sixty-seven. He has a twist of the gout now and then, and walks 
a little stiffly. He is of a worthy presence, with his light grey 
hair and whiskers, his fine shirt-frill, his pure white waistcoat, and 
his blue coat with blight buttons always buttoned. He is cere- 
monious, stately, most polite on every occasion to my Lady, and 
holds her personal attractions in the highest estimation. His gal- 
lantry to my Lady, which has never changed since he courted her, 
is the one little touch of romantic fancy in him. 

Indeed, he married her for love. A whisper still goes about, 



BLEAK HOUSE. 9 

that she had not even family ; howbeit, Sir Leicester had so much 
family that perhaps he had enough, and could dispense with any 
more. But she had beauty, pride, ambition, insolent resolve, and 
sense enough to portion out a legion of fine ladies. Wealth and 
station, added to these, soon floated her upward ; and for years, 
now, my Lady Dedlock has been at the centre of the fashionable 
intelligence, and at the top of the fashionable tree. 

How Alexander wept when he had no more worlds to conquer, 
everybody knows — or has some reason to know by this time, the 
matter having been rather frequently mentioned. My Lady Ded- 
lock, having conquered her world, fell, not into the melting, but 
rather into the freezing mood. An exhausted composure, a worn- 
out placidity, an equanimity of fatigue not to be ruffled by interest 
or satisfaction, are the trophies of her victoiy. She is perfectly 
well-bred. If she could be translated to Heaven to-moiTOw, she 
might be expected to ascend without any rapture. 

She has beauty still, and, if it be not in its heyday, it is not yet 
in its autumn. She has a fine face — originally of a character 
that would be rather called very pretty than handsome, but im- 
proved into classicality by the acquired expression of her fashion- 
able state. Her figure is elegant, and has the effect of being tall. 
Not that she is so, but that "the most is made," as the Honour- 
able Bob Stables has frequently asserted upon oath, " of all her 
points." The same authority observes, that she is perfectly got 
up ; and remarks, in commendation of her hair especially, that 
she is the best-groomed woman in the whole stud. 

With all her perfections on her head, my Lady Dedlock has 
come up from her jjlace in Lincolnshire (hotly pursued by the 
fashionable intelligence), to pass a few days at her house in town 
previous to her departure for Paris, where her ladyship intends to 
stay some weeks, after which her movements are uncertain. And 
at her house in town, upon this muddy, murky afternoon, presents 
himself an old-fashioned old gentleman, attorney-at-law, and eke 
solicitor of the High Court of Chancery, who has the honour of 
acting as legal adviser of the Dedlocks, and has as many cast-iron 
boxes in his office with that name outside, as if the present baronet 
were the coin of the conjuror's trick, and wei'e constantly being 
juggled through the whole set. Across the hall, and up the stairs, 
and along the passages, and through the rooms, which are very 
brilliant in the season and very dismal out of it — Fairy-land to 
visit, but a desert to live in — the old gentleman is conducted, by 
a Mercury in powder, to my Lady's presence. 

The old gentleman is rusty to look at, but is reputed to have 
made good thrift out of aristocratic marriage settlements and 



10 BLEAK HOUSE. 

aristocratic wills, and to be very rich. He is surrounded by a 
mysterious halo of family confidences ; of which he is known to be 
the silent depositary. There are noble Mausoleums rooted for 
centuries in retired glades of i^arks, among the growing timber and 
the fern, which perhaps hold fewer noble secrets than walk abroad 
among men, shut up in the breast of Mr. Tulkinghorn. He is 
of what is called the old school — a phrase generally meaning any 
school that seems never to have been youjig — and wears knee 
breeches tied with ribbons, and gaiters or stockings. One pecul- 
iarity of his black clothes, and of his black stockings, be they 
silk or worsted, is, that they never shine. Mute, close, irrespon- 
sive to any glancing light, his dress is like himself. He never 
converses, when not professionally consulted. He is found some- 
times, speechless but quite at home, at corners of dinner-tables 
in great country houses, and near doors of drawing-rooms, con- 
cerning which the fashionable intelligence is eloquent : where every- 
body knows him, and where half the Peerage stops to say ^' How 
do you do, Mr. Tulkinghorn ? " He receives these salutations with 
gravity, and buries them along with the rest of his knowledge. 

Sir Leicester Dedlock is with my Lady, and is happy to ,see 
Mr. Tulkinghorn. There is an air of prescription about him which 
is always agreeable to Sir Leicester ; he receives it as a kind of 
tribute. He likes Mr. Tulkinghorn's dress ; there is a kind of 
tribute in that too. It is eminently respectable, and likewise, in 
a general way, retainer-like. It expresses, as it were, the steward 
of the legal mysteries, the butler of the legal cellar, of the Ded-' 
locks. 

Has Mr. Tulkinghorn any idea of this himself? It may be so, 
or it may not ; but there is this remai'kable circumstance to be 
noted in everytliing associated with my Lady Dedlock as one of 
a class • — as one of the leaders and representatives of her little 
world. She supposes herself to be an inscnitable Being, quite out 
of the reach and ken of ordinary mortals — seeing herself in hei 
glass, where indeed she looks so. Yet, every dim little star revolv- 
ing about her, from her maid to the manager of the Italian Opera, 
knows her weaknesses, jirejudices, follies, haughtinesses, and ca- 
prices ; and lives upon as accurate a calculation and as nice a meas-j 
ure of her moral nature, as her dress-maker takes of her physical! 
proportions. Is a new dress, a new custom, a new singer, a new 
dancer, a new form of jewellery, a new dwarf or giant, a new{ 
chapel, a new anything, to be set up 1 There are deferential peo- 
ple, in a dozen callings, whom my Lady Dedlock suspects of noth- 
ing but prostration before her, who can tell you how to manage 
her as if she were a baby ; who do nothing but nurse her all their 



BLEAK HOUSE. 11 

lives ; who, humbly afterting to follow with profoimd subservi- 
ence, lead her and her whole troop after them ; who, in hooking 
one, hook all and bear them off, as Lemuel Gulliver bore away the 
stately fleet of the majestic Lilliput. " If you want to address 
our people, sir," say Blaze and Sparkle the jewellers — meaning 
by our people. Lady Dedlock and the rest — "you must remember 
that you are not dealing with the general public ; you must hit 
our people in their weakest place, and their weakest place is such 
a place." " To make this article go down, gentlemen," say Sheen 
and Gloss the mercers, to their friends the manufacturers, "you 
must come to us, because we know where to have the fashionable 
peoi:)le, and we can make it fashionable." "If you want to get 
this print upon the tables of my high connection, sir," says Mr. 
Sladdery the librarian, "or if you want to get this dwarf or giant 
into the houses of my high connection, sir, or if you want to secure 
to this entertainment the patronage of my high connection, sir, 
you must leave it, if you please, to me ; for I have been accustomed 
to study the leaders of my high connection, sir ; and I may tell 
you, without vanity, that I can turn them round my finger," — in 
which Mr. Sladdery, who is an honest man, does not exaggerate 
at all. 

Therefore, while Mr. Tulkinghorn may not know what is pass- 
ing in the Dedlock mind at present, it is very possible that he 
may. 

" My Lady's cause has been again before the Chancellor, has 
it, Mr. Tidkinghorn 1 " says Sir Leicester, giving him his hand. 

"Yes. It has been on again to-day," Mr. Tulkinghorn replies ; 
making one of his quiet bows to my Lady who is on a sofa near 
the fire, shading her face with a hand-screen. 

"It would be useless to ask," says my Lady, with the dreari- 
ness of the place in Lincolnshire still upon her, " whether anything 
has been done." 

" Nothing that t/ou would call anything, has been done to-day," 
replies Mr. Tulkinghorn. 

" Nor ever will be," says my Lady. 

Sir Leicester has no objection to an interminable Chancery suit. 
It is a slow, expensive, British, constitutional kind of thing. To 
be sure, he has not a vital interest in the suit in question, her 
part in which was the only property my Lady brought him ; and 
he has a shadowy impression that for his name — the name of 
Dedlock — to be in a cause, and not in the title of that cause, is 
a most ridiculous accident. But he regards the Court of Chancery, 
even if it should involve an occasional delay of justice and a tri- 
fling amount of confusion, as a something, devised in conjunction 



12 BLEAK HOUSE. 

with a variety of other somethings, by the perfection of human 
wisdom, for the eternal settlement (humanly speaking) of every- 
thing. And he is upon the whole of a fixed opinion, tlaat to give 
the sanction of his countenance to any complaints respecting it, 
would be to encourage some person in the lower classes to rise up 
somewhere — like Wat Tyler. 

" As a few fresh affidavits have been put upon the file," says 
Mr. Tulkinghorn, " and as they are short, and as I proceed upon 
the troublesome principle of begging leave to possess my clients 
Avith any new proceedings in a cause ; " cautious man, Mr. Tulking- 
horn, taking no more responsibility than necessary; "and further, 
as I see you are going to Paris ; I have brought them in my 
pocket." 

(Sir Leicester was going to Paris too, by-the-bye, but the delight 
of the fashionable intelligence was in his Lady.) 

Mr. Tulkinghorn takes out his papers, asks permission to place 
them on a golden talisman of a table at my Lady's elbow, puts on 
his spectacles, and begins to read by the light of a shaded lamp. 

" ' In Chancery. Between John Jarndyce ' " 

My Lady interrupts, requesting him to miss as many of the 
formal horrors as he can. 

Mr. Tulkinghorn glances over his spectacles, and begins again 
lower down. My Lady carelessly and scornfully abstracts her atten- 
tion. Sir Leicester in a great chair looks at the fire, and appears 
to have a stately liking for the legal repetitions and prolixities, as 
ranging among the national bulwarks. It hapiiens that the fire is 
hot, where my Lady sits ; and that the hand-screen is more beauti- 
ful than useful, being priceless but small. My Lady, changing her 
position, sees the papers on the table — looks at them nearer — 
looks at them nearer still — asks impulsively : 

" Who copied that ? • ' 

Mr. Tulkinghorn stops short, surprised by my Lady's animation 
and her unusual tone. 

"Is it what you people call law-hand ? " she asks, looking full 
at him in her careless way again, and toying with her screen. 

"Not quite. Probably" — Mr. Tulkinghorn examines it as he 
speaks — " the legal character it has, was acquired after the 
original hand was formed. Why do you ask 1 " 

" Anything to vaiy this detestable monotony. 0, go on, do ! " 

Mr. Tulkinghorn reads again. The heat is greater, my Lady 
screens her face. Sir Leicester dozes, starts up suddenly, and cries 
" Eh 1 what do you say 1 " 

" I say I am afraid," says Mr. Tulkinghorn, who has risen hastily,, 
" that Lady Dedlock is ill." 



BLEAK HOUSE. 13 

" Faint," my Lady murmurs, with white lips, " only that ; but it 
is like the faintness of death. Don't speak to me. Ring, and 
take me to my room ! " 

Mr. Tulkinghorn retires into another chamber ; bells ring, feet 
shuffle and patter, silence ensues. Mercury at last begs Mr. 
Tulkinghorn to return. 

" Better now," quoth Sir Leicester, motioning the lawyer to sit 
down and read to him alone. " I have been quite alarmed. I never 
knew my Lady swoon before. But the weather is extremely trying 
— - and she really has been bored to death down at our place in 
Lincolnshire." 



CHAPTER III 

A PROGRESS. 

I HAVE a great deal of difficulty in beginning to write my por- 
tion of these pages, for I know I am not clever. I always knew 
that. I can remember, when I was a very little girl indeed, I used 
to say to my doll, when we were alone together, " Now, Dolly, I am 
not clever, you know very well, and you must be patient with me, 
like a dear ! " And so she used to sit propped up in a great arm- 
chair, with her beautiful complexion and rosy lips, staring at me 
— or not so much at me, I think, as at nothing — while I busily 
stitched away, and told her every one of my secrets. 

My dear old doll ! I was such a shy little thing that I seldom 
dared to open my lips, and never dared to open my heart, to any- 
body else. It almost makes me cry to think what a relief it used 
to be to me, when I came home from school of a day, to run up- 
stairs to my room, and say, " you dear faithful Dolly, I knew you 
would be expecting me ! " and then to sit down on the floor, leaning 
on the elbow of her great chair, and tell her all I had noticed since 
we parted. I had always rather a noticing way — not a quick way, 
O no ! — a silent way of noticing what passed before me, and think- 
ing I should like to understand it better. I have not by any means 
a quick understanding. When I love a person very tenderly indeed, 
it seems to brighten. But even that may be my vanity. 

I was brought up, from my earliest remembrance — like some 
of the princesses in the feiry stories, only I was not charming — 
by my godmother. At least I only knew her as such. She was a 
good, good woman ! She went to church three times every Sunday, 
and to morning jirayers on Wednesdays and Fridays, and to lectures 
whenever there were lectures ; and never missed. She was hand- 



14 BLEAK HOUSE. 

some ; and if she had ever smiled, would have been (I used to 
think) like an angel — but she never smiled. She was always 
grave, and strict. She was so very good herself, I thought, that 
the badness of other jieople made her frown all her life. I felt so 
different from her, even making every allowance for the differences 
between a child and a woman ; I felt so jDoor, so trifling, and so far 
off ; that I never could be unrestrained with her — no, could never 
even love her as I wished. It made me very sorry to consider how 
good she was, and how iniworthy of her I was ; and I used ardently 
to hope that I might have a better heart ; and I talked it over 
very often with the dear old doll ; but I never loved my godmother 
as I ought to have loved her, and as I felt I must have loved her 
if I had been a better girl. 

This made me, I dare say, more timid and retiring than I nat- 
urally was, and cast me upon Dolly as the only friend with whom 
I felt at ease. But something happened when I was still quite a 
little thing, that helped it very much. 

I had never heard my mama spoken of. I had never heard of 
my papa either, but I felt more interested about my mama. I had 
never worn a black frock, that I could recollect. I had never been 
shown my mama's grave. I had never been told where it was. 
Yet I had never been taught to pray for any relation but my god- 
mother. I had more than once approached this subject of my 
thoughts with Mrs. Rachael, our only servant, who took my light 
away when I was in bed (another very good woman, but austere to 
me), and she had only said, " Esther, good night ! " and gone away 
and left me. 

Although there were seven girls at the neighbouring school 
where I was a day boarder, and although they called me little 
Esther Summerson, I knew none of them at home. All of them 
were older than I, to be sure (I was the youngest there by a good 
deal), but there seemed to be some other separation between us 
besides that, and besides their being far more clever than I was, 
and knowing much more than I did. One of them, in the first 
week of my going to the school (I remember it very well), invited 
me home to a little party, to my great joy. But my godmother 
wrote a stiff letter declining for me, and I never went. I never 
went out at all. 

It was my birthday. There were holidays at school on other 
birthdays — none on mine. There were rejoicings at home on other 
birthdays, as I knew from what I heard the girls relate to one 
another — there were none on mine. My birthday was the most 
melancholy day at home, in the whole year. 

I have mentioned, that, unless my vanity should deceive me (as 



BLEAK HOUSE. 15 

I know it may, for I may be very vain, without suspecting it — 
though indeed I don't), my comprehension is quickened when my 
affection is. My disposition is very affectionate ; and perhaps I 
might still feel such a wound, if such a wound could be received 
more than once, with the quickness of that birthday. 

Dinner was over, and my godmother and I were sitting at the 
table before the fire. The clock ticked, the fire clicked ; not an- 
other sound had been heard in the room, or in the house, for I 
don't know how long. I happened to look timidly up from my 
stitching, across the table, at my godmother, and I saw in her face, 
looking gloomily at me, " It would have been far better, little Esther, 
that you had had no birthday ; that you had never been born ! " 

I broke out crying and sobbing, and I said, " 0, dear godmother, 
tell me, pray do tell me, did mama die on my birthday ? " 

" No," she returned. " Ask me no more, child ! " 

" 0, do pray tell me something of her. Do now, at last, dear 
godmother, if you please ! What did I do to her 1 How did I 
lose her ? Why am I so diff"erent from other children, and why is 
it my fault, dear godmother 1 No, no, no, don't go away. 0, speak 
to me ! " 

I was in a kind of fright beyond my grief ; and I had caught hold 
of her dress, and was kneeling to her. She had been saying all 
the while, " Let me go ! " But now she stood still. 

Her darkened face had such power over me, that it stopped me 
in the midst of my vehemence. I put up my trembling little hand 
to clasp hers, or to beg her pardon with what earnestness I might, 
but withdrew it as she looked at me, and laid it on my fluttering 
heart. She raised me, sat in her chair, and standing me before her, 
said, slowly, in a cold, low voice — I see her knitted brow, and 
pointed finger : 

" Your mother, Esther, is your disgrace, and you were hers. 
The time will come — and soon enough — when you will under- 
stand this better, and will feel it too, as no one save a woman can. 
I have forgiven her ; " but her face did not relent ; " the wrong she 
did to me, and I say no more of it, though it was greater than you 
Mall ever know — than any one will ever know, but I, the sufferer. 
For yourself, unfortunate girl, orphaned and degraded from the 
first of these evil anniversaries, pray daily that the sins of others 
be not visited upon your head, according to what is written. For- 
get your mother, and leave all other people to forget her who will 
do her unhappy child that greatest kindness. Now, go ! " 

She checked me, however, as I was about to depart from her — 
so frozen as I was ! — and added this : 

" Submission, self-denial, diligent work, are the preparations for 



16 BLEAK HOUSE. 

a life begun with such a shadow on it. You are dift'ereiit from 
other children, Esther, because you were not born, like them, in 
common sinfulness and wi'ath. You are set apart." 

I went up to my room, and crept to bed, and laid my doll's 
cheek against mine wet with tears ; and holding that solitary friend 
upon my bosom, cried myself to sleep. Imperfect as my under- 
standing of my sorrow was, I knew that I had brought no joy, at 
any time, to anybody's heart, and that I was to no one upon earth 
what Dolly was to me. 

Deal-, dear, to think how much time we passed alone together 
afterwards, and how often I repeated to the doll the story of my 
birthday, and confided to her that I would try, as hard as ever I 
could, to repair the tault I had been born with (of which I con- 
fusedly felt guilty and yet innocent), and would strive as I grew 
up to be industrious, contented, and kind-hearted, and to do some 
good to some one, and win some love to myself if I could. I hope 
it is not self-indulgent to shed these tears as I think of it. I am 
very thankful, I am very cheerful, but I cannot quite help their 
coming to my eyes. 

There ! I have wiped them away now, and can go on again 
properly. 

I felt the distance between my godmother and myself so much 
more after the birthday, and felt so sensible of filling a place in her 
house which ought to have been empty, that I found her more 
difficult of approach, though I was fervently grateful to her in my 
heart, than ever. I felt in the same way towards my school com- 
panions ; I felt in the same way towards Mrs. Rachael, who was a 
widow ; and 0, towards her daughter, of whom she was proud, 
who came to see her once a fortnight ! I was very retired and 
quiet, and tried to be very diligent. 

One sunny afternoon, when I had come home from school with 
my books and portfolio, watching my long shadow at my side, and 
as I was gliding up-stairs to my room as usual, my godmother 
looked out of the parlour-door, and called me back. Sitting with 
her, I found — which was very unusual indeed — a stranger. A 
portly important-looking gentleman, dressed all in black, with a 
white cravat, large gold watch seals, a pair of gold eye-glasses, and 
a large seal-ring upon his little finger. 

" This," said my godmother in an under-tone, " is the child." 
Then she said, in her naturally stern way of speaking, " This is 
Esther, sir." 

The gentleman put up his eye-glasses to look at me, and said, 
" Come here, my dear ! " He shook hands with me, and asked me 
to take off" my bonnet — looking at me all the while. When I 



BLEAK HOUSE. 17 

had complied, he said, "Ah!" and afterwards "Yes!" And 
then, taking off his eye-glasses, and folding them in a red case, and 
leaning back in his arm-chair, turning the case about in his two 
hands he gave my godmother a nod. Upon that, my godmother 
said, " You may go up-stairs, Esther ! " and I made him my curtsey 
and left him. 

It must have been two years afterwards, and I was almost four- 
teen, when one dreadful night my godmother and I sat at the fire- 
side. I was reading aloud, and she was listening. I had come 
down at nine o'clock, as I always did, to read the Bible to her ; 
and was reading, from St. John, how our Saviour stooped down, 
writing with his finger in the dust, when they brought the sinful 
woman to him. 

" ' So when they continued asking him, he lifted up himself and 
said unto them. He that is without sin among you, let him first 
cast a stone at her ! ' " 

I was stopped by my godmother's rising, putting her hand to her 
head, and crying out, in an awful voice, from quite another part of 
the book : 

" 'Watch ye therefore ! lest coming suddenly he find you sleep- 
ing. And what I say unto you, I say unto all. Watch ! ' " 

In an instant, while she stood before me repeating these words, 
she fell down on the floor. I had no need to cry out ; her voice 
had sounded through the house, and been heard in the street. 

She was laid upon her bed. For more than a week she lay there, 
little altered outwardly; with her old handsome resolute frown 
that I so well knew, carved upon her face. Many and many a 
time, in the day and in the night, with my head upon the pillow 
by her that my whispers might be plainer to her, I kissed her, 
thanked her, prayed for her, asked her for her blessing and foi-give- 
ness, entreated her to give me the least sign that she knew or 
heard me. No, no, no. Her face was immovable. To the very 
last, and even afterwards, her frown remained unsoftened. 

On the day after my poor good godmother was buried, the gentle- 
man in black with the white neckcloth reappeared. I was sent for 
by Mrs. Rachael, and foimd him in the same place, as if he had 
never gone away. 

"My name is Kenge," he said; "you may remember it, my 
child ; Kenge and Carboy, Lincoln's Inn." 

I replied, that I remembered to have seen him once before. 

" Pray be seated — here, near me. Don't distress yourself ; it's 
of no use. Mrs. Rachael, I needn't inform you who were acquainted 
with the late Miss Barbary's affairs, that her means die with her ; 
and that this young lady, now her aunt is dead " 



18 BLEAK HOUSE. 

" My aunt, sir ! " 

"It really is of no use carrying on a deception when no object 
is to be gained by it," said Mr. Kenge, smoothly. "Aunt in fact, 
though not in law. Don't distress yourself ! Don't weep ! Don't 
tremble ! Mrs. Rachael, our young friend has no doubt heard of 
— the — a — Jarndyce and Jarndyce." 

" Never," said Mrs. Rachael. 

"Is it possible," pursued Mr. Kenge, putting up his eye-glasses, 
"that our young friend — I beg you won't distress yourself! — 
never heard of Jarndyce and Jarndyce ! " 

I shook my head, wondering even what it was. 

" Not of Jarndyce and Jarndyce 1 " said Mr. Kenge, looking over 
his glasses at me, and softly turning the case about and about, 
as if he were petting something. "Not of one of the greatest 
Chancery suits known 1 Not of Jarndyce and Jarndyce — the — 
a — in itself a monument of Chancery practice 1 In which (I would 
say) every difficulty, every contingency, every masterly fiction, every 
form of procedure known in that court, is represented over and 
over again? It is a cause that could not exist, out of this free 
and great country. I should say that the aggregate of costs in 
Jarndyce and Jarndyce, Mrs. Rachael ; " I was afraid he addressed 
himself to her, because I appeared inattentive; "amounts at the 
present hour to from six-ty to SEVEN-ty thousand pounds ! " said 
Mr. Kenge, leaning back in his chair. 

I felt very ignorant, but what could I do ? I was so entirely 
unacquainted with the subject, that I understood nothing about 
it even then. 

" And she really never heard of the cause ! " said Mr. Kenge. 
" Surprising ! " 

" Miss Barbary, sir,"' returned Mrs. Rachael, " who is now among 
the Seraphim " 

("I hope so, I am sure," said Mr. Kenge, politely.) 

" — Wished Esther only to know what would be serviceable to 
her. And she knows, from any teaching she has had here, nothing 
more." 

" Well ! " said Mr Kenge. " Upon the whole, very proper. 
Now to the point," addressing me. "Miss Barbary, your sole 
relation (in fact, that is ; for I am bound to observe that in law 
you had none), being deceased, and it naturally not being to be 
expected that Mrs. Rachael " 

"0 dear no ! " said Mrs. Rachael, quickly. 

" Quite so," assented Mr. Kenge ; — " that Mrs. Rachael should 
charge herself with your maintenance and support (I beg you won't 
distress yourself), you are in a position to receive the renewal of 



BLEAK HOUSE. 19 

;ui oft'er wliicli I was insti acted to make to Miss Barbary some two 
years ago, and which, though rejected then, was understood to be 
renewable under the lamentable circumstances that have since 
occurred. Now, if I avow, that I represent, in Jarndyce and 
■Jarndyce, and otherwise, a highly humane, but at the same time 
singular man, shall I compromise myself by any stretch of my 
professional caution?" said Mr. Kenge, leaning back in his chair 
again, and looking calmly at us both. 

He appeared to enjoy beyond everything the sound of his own • 
voice. I couldn't wonder at that, for it was mellow and full, and 
gave great importance to every word he uttered. He listened to 
himself with obvious satisfaction, and sometimes gently beat time 
to his own music with his head, or rounded a sentence with his 
hand. I was very much imjiressed by him — even then, before 
I knew that he formed himself on the model of a great lord who 
was his client, and that he was generally called Conversation 
Kenge. 

"Mr. Jarndyce," he pursued, "being aware of the — I would 
say, desolate — position of our young friend, oflfers to place her 
at a first-rate establishment ; where her education shall be com- 
pleted, where her comfort shall be secured, where her reasonable 
wants shall be anticipated, where she shall be eminently qualified 
to discharge her duty in that station of life unto which it has pleased 
— shall I say Providence? — to call her." 

My heart was filled so full, both by what he said, and by his 
affecting manner of saying it, that I was not able to speak, though 
I tried. 

"Mr. Jarndyce," he went on, "makes no condition, beyond ex- 
pressing his expectation, that our young friend will not at any 
time remove herself from the establishment in question without 
his knowledge and concurrence. That she will faithfully apply 
herself to the acquisition of those accomplishments, upon the exercise 
of which she will be ultimately dependent. That she will tread 
in the paths of virtue and honour, and — the — a so forth." 

I was still less able to speak, than before. 

" Now, what does our young friend say 1 " proceeded Mr. Kenge. 
" Take time, take time ! I pause for her reply. But take time ! " 

What the destitute subject of such an offer tried to say, I need 
not repeat. What she did say, I could more easily tell, if it were 
worth the telling. What she felt, and will feel to her dying hour, 
I coiild never relate. 

This interview took place at Windsor, where I had passed (as 
far as I knew) my whole life. On that day week, amply provided 
with all necessaries, I left it, inside the stage-coach, for Reading. 



20 BLEAK HOUSE. 

Mrs. Rachael was too good to feel any emotion at parting, but 
I was not so good, and wept bitterly. I thought that I ought 
to have known her better after so many years, and ought to have 
made myself enough of a favourite with her to make her sorry 
then. When she gave me one cold parting kiss upon my forehead, 
like a thaw-drop from the stone porch — it was a very frosty day 
— I felt so miserable and self-reproachful, that I clung to her and 
told her it was my fault, I knew, that she could say good bye so 
easily ! 

"No, Esther ! " she returned. "It is your misfortune ! " 

Thevsoach was at the little lawn gate — we had not come out 
until V e heard the wheels — and thus I left her, with a sorrowful 
heart. She went in before my boxes were lifted to the coach-roof, 
and shut the door. As long as I could see the house, I looked back 
at it from the window, through my tears. My godmother had left 
Mrs. Rachael all the little property she possessed ; and there was 
to be a sale ; and an old hearthrug with roses on it, which always 
seemed to me the first thing in the world I had ever seen, was 
hanging outside in the frost and snow. A day or two before, I 
had wrapped the dear old doll in her own shawl, and quietly laid 
her — I am half ashamed to tell it — in the garden-earth, under 
the tree that shaded my old window. I had no companion left 
but my bird, and him I carried with me in his cage. 

When the house was out of sight, I sat, with my bird-cage in 
the straw at my feet, forward on the low seat, to look out of the 
high window ; watching the frosty trees, that were like beautiful 
pieces of spar ; and the fields all smooth and white with last night's 
snow ; and the sun, so red but yielding so little heat ; and the ice, 
dark like metal, where the skaters and sliders had brushed the 
snow away. There was a gentleman in the coach who sat on the 
opposite seat, and looked very large in a quantity of wrappings ; 
but he sat gazing out of the other window, and took no notice of 
me. 

I thought of my dead godmother ; of the night when I read to 
her ; of her frowning so fixedly and sternly in her bed ; of the 
strange place I was going to ; of the people I should find there, 
and what they would be like, and what they would say to me ; 
when a voice in the coach gave me a terrible start. 

It said, " What the de-vil are you crying for 1 " 

I was so frightened that I lost my voice, and could only answer 
in a whisper. " Me, sir 1 " For of course I knew it must have 
been the gentleman in the quantity of wrappings, though he was 
still looking out of his window. 

"Yes, you," he said, turning round. 



BLEAK HOUSE. 21 

"I didn't know I was crying, sir," I faltered. 

" But you are ! " said the gentleman. " Look here ! " He came 
quite opposite to me from the other corner of the coach, brushed 
one of his large furry cufts across my eyes (but without hurting 
me), and showed me that it was wet. 

"There! Now you know you are," he said. "Don't you?" 

"Yes, sir," I said. 

"And what are you crying for?" said the gentleman. "Don't 
you want to go there ? " 

" Where, sir ? " 

"Where? Why, wherever you are going," said the ge tleman. 

"I am very glad to go there, sir," I answered. 

" Well, then ! Look glad ! " said the gentleman. 

I thought he was very strange ; or at least that what I could see 
of him was very strange, for he was wrapped up to the chin, and his 
face was almost hidden in a fur cap, with broad fur straps at the 
side of his head, fastened under his chin ; but I was composed 
again, and not afraid of him. So I told him that I thought I 
must have been crying, because of my godmother's death, and 
because of Mrs. Rachael's not being sorry to part with me. 

"Con-found Mrs. Rachael ! " said the gentleman. "Let her 
fly away in a high wind on a broomstick ! " 

I began to be really afraid of him now, and looked at him with 
the greatest astonishment. But I thought that he had pleasant 
eyes, although he kept on muttering to himself in an angry man- 
ner, and calling Mrs. Rachael names. 

After a little while, he opened his outer wrapper, which appeared 
to me large enough to wrap up the whole coach, and put his arm 
down into a deep pocket in the side. 

" Now, look here ! " he said. " In this paper," which M^as 
nicely folded, "is a piece of the best plum-cake that can be got for 
money — sugar on the outside an inch thick, like fat on mutton 
chops. Here's a little pie (a gem this is, both for size and qual- 
ity), made in France. And what do you suppose it's made of? 
Livers of fat geese. There's a pie ! Now let's see you eat 'em." 

" Thank you, sir," I replied, " thank you very much indeed, but 
I hope you won't be offended ; they are too rich for me." 

" Floored again ! " said the gentleman, which I didn't at all 
understand ; and threw them both out of window. 

He did not speak to me any more, until he got out of the coach 
a little way short of Reading, when he advised me to be a good 
girl, and to be studious ; and shook hands with me. I must say 
I was relieved by liis departure. We left liim at a milestone. I 
often walked past it afterwards, and never, for a long time, without 



22 BLEAK HOUSE. 

thinking of him, and half expecting to meet liim. But I never 
did ; and so, as time went on, lie passed out of my mind. 

When the coach stopped, a very neat lady looked up at the win- 
dow, and said : 

"Miss Donny." 

"No, ma'am, Esther Summerson." 

" That is quite right," said the lady, "Miss Donny." 

I now understood that she introduced herself by that name, and 
begged Miss Donny's pardon for my mistake, and pointed out my 
boxes at her request. Under the direction of a very neat maid, 
they were put outside a very small green carriage ; and then Miss 
Donny, the maid, and I, got inside, and were driven away. 

" Everything is ready for you, Esther," said Miss Donny ; " and 
the scheme of your pursuits has been arranged in exact accordance 
with the wishes of your guardian, Mr. Jarndyce." 

"Of ^did you say, ma'am?" 

" Of your guardian, Mr. Jarndyce," said Miss Donny. 

I was so bewildered that Miss Donny thought tlie cold had been 
too severe for me, and lent me her smelling-bottle. 

" Do you know my — guardian, Mr. Jarndyce, ma'am ? " I asked, 
after a good deal of hesitation. 

"Not personally, Esther," said Miss Donny; " merely through 
his solicitors, Messrs. Kenge and Carboy, of London. A very 
superior gentleman, Mr. Kenge. Truly eloquent indeed. Some 
of his periods quite majestic ! " 

I felt this to be very true, but was too confused to attend to it. 
Our speedy arrival at our destination, before I had time to recover 
myself, increased my confusion ; and I never shall forget the uncer- 
tain and unreal air of everything at Oreenleaf (Miss Donny's 
house), that afternoon ! 

But I soon became used to it. I was so adapted to the routine 
of Greenleaf before long, that I seemed to have been there a great 
while ; and almost to have dreamed rather than really lived, my 
old life at my godmother's. Nothing could be more precise, exact, 
and orderly, than Greenleaf. There was a time for everything 
all round the dial of the clock, ar.d everything was done at its 
appointed moment. 

We were twelve boarders, and there were two Miss Donnys, 
twins. It was understood that I would have to depend, by-and- 
bye, on my qualifications as a governess ; and I was not only 
instructed in everything that was taught at Greenleaf, but was 
very soon engaged in helping to instruct others. Although I was 
treated in every other respect like the rest of the school, this single 
difference was made in my case from the first. As I began to 



BLEAK HOUSE. 23 

know more, I taught more, and so in course of time I had plenty 
to do, which I was very fond of doing, because it made the dear 
girls fond of me. At last, whenever a new pupil came who was a 
little downcast and unhappy, she was so sure — indeed I don't 
know why — to make a friend of me, that all new-comers were 
confided to my care. They said I was so gentle ; but I am sure 
theij were ! I often thought of the resolution I had made on my 
birthday, to try to be industrious, contented, and tme-hearted, and 
to do some good to some one, and win some love if I could ; 
and indeed, indeed, I felt almost ashamed to have done so little 
and have won so mucli. 

I passed at Greenleaf six happy, quiet years. I never saw 
in any face there, thank Heaven, on my birthday, that it would 
have been better if I had never been born. When the day came 
round, it brought me so many tokens of affectionate remembrance 
that my room was beautiful with them from New Year's Day to 
Christmas. 

In those six years I had never been away, except on visits at 
holiday time in the neighbourhood. After the first six months or 
so, I had taken Miss Donny's advice in reference to the propriety 
of writing to Mr. Kenge, to say that I was happy and grateful ; 
and with her approval I had written such a letter. I had received 
a formal answer acknowledging its receipt, and saying, " We note 
the contents thereof, which shall be duly communicated to our 
client." After that, I sometimes heard Miss Donny and her sis- 
ter mention how regularly my accounts were paid ; and about twice 
a year I ventured to write a similar letter. I always received by 
return of post exactly the same answer, in the same round hand ; 
with the signature of Kenge and Carboy in another writing, which 
I supposed to be Mr. Kenge's. 

It seems so curious to me to be obliged to write all this about 
myself ! As if this narrative were the narrative of my life ! But 
my little body will soon fall into the background now. 

Six quiet years (I find I am saying it for the second time) I had 
passed at Greenleaf, seeing in those around me, as it might be in a 
looking-glass, every stage of my own growth and change there, 
when, one November morning, I received this letter. I omit the 
date. 

Old Square., Lincoln's Inn. 
Madam, 

Jarndyce and Jarndyce. 

Our clt Mr. Jarndyce being abt to rece into his house, tinder an 
Order of the Ct of Chy, a Ward of the Ct in this cause, for whom he 



24 BLEAK HOUSE. 



wishes to secure an elgble compn, directs us to inform you that he ivill 
be glad of your serces in the afsd capacity. 

We have arrngd for your being forded., carriage free, p^ eight o^ clock 
coach from Beading^ on Monday morning next, to White Horse Cellar, 
Piccadilly, London, where one of our elks will be in waitijig to convey 
you to our offe as above. 

We are, Madam, Your obed' Serv", 

Kenge and Carboy. 
Miss Esther Summerson. 

0, never, never, never shall I forget the emotion this letter 
caused in the house ! It was so tender in them to care so much 
for me ; it was so gracious in that Father who had not forgotten 
me, to have made my orphan way so smooth and easy, and to 
have inclined so many youthful natures towards me ; that I could 
hardly bear it. Not that I would have had them less sorry — I 
am afraid not ; but the pleasure of it, and the pain of it, and 
the pride and joy of it, and the humble regret of it, were so 
blended, that my heart seemed almost breaking while it was full 
of rapture. 

The letter gave me only five days' notice of my removal. When 
every minute added to the proofs of love and kindness that were 
given me in those five days ; and when at last the morning came, 
and when they took me through all the rooms that I might see 
them for the last time ; and when some cried, " Esther, dear, say 
good bye to me here, at my bedside, where you first spoke so kindly 
to me ! " and when others asked me only to write their names, 
" With Esther's love ; " and when they all surrounded me with 
their parting pi-esents, and slung to me weeping, and cried, "What 
shall we do when dear, dear Esther's gone ! " and when I tried to 
tell them how forbearing, and how good they had all been to me, 
and how I blessed, and thanked them every one ; what a heart 
I had! 

And when the two Miss Donnys grieved as much to part with 
me, as the least among them ; and when the maids said, " Bless 
you, miss, wherever you go ! " and when the ugly lame old gar- 
dener, who I thought had hardly noticed me in all those years, 
came panting after the coach to give me a little nosegay of gera- 
niums, and told me I had been the light of his eyes — indeed the 
old man said so ! — what a heart I had then ! 

And could I help it, if with all this, and the coming to the 
little school, and the unexpected sight of the poor children outside 
waving their hats and bonnets to me, and of a grey-haired gentle- 
man and lady, whose daughter I had helped to teach and at whose 



I 



BLEAK HOUSE. 25 

house I had visited (who were said to be the proudest people in 
all that country), caring for nothing but calling out, "Good bye, 
Esther. May you be very happy ! " — could I help it if I was 
quite bowed down in the coach by myself, and said " 0, I am so 
thankful, I am so thankful ! " many times over ! 

But of course I soon considered that I must not take teai's 
where I was going, after all that had been done for me. There- 
fore, of course, I made myself sob less, and persuaded myself to be 
quiet by saying very often, " Esther, now, you really must ! This 
wiU not do ! " I cheered myself \\p pretty well at last, though I 
am afraid I was longer about it than I ought to have been ; and 
when I had cooled my eyes with lavender water, it was time to 
watch for London. 

I was quite persuaded that we were there, when we were ten 
miles off; and when we really were there, that we should never 
get there. However, when we began to jolt upon a stone pave- 
ment, and particularly when every other conveyance seemed to be 
running into us, and we seemed to be running into every other 
conveyance, I began to believe that we really were approaching 
the end of our journey. Very soon afterwards we stopped. 

A young gentleman who had inked himself by accident, addressed 
me from the pavement, and said, " I am from Kenge and Carboy's, 
miss, of Lincoln's Inn." 

" If you please, sir," said I. 

He was very obliging ; and as he handed me into a fly, after 
superintending the removal of my boxes, I asked hira whether 
there was a great fire anywhere ? For the streets were so full of 
dense brown smoke that scarcely anything was to be seen. 

" dear no, miss," he said. " This is a London particular." 

I had never lieard of such a thing. 

" A fog, miss," said the young gentleman. 

" indeed ! " said I. 

We drove slowly through the dirtiest and darkest streets that 
ever were seen in the world (I thought), and in such a distracting 
state of confusion that I wondered how tlie people kept their senses, 
until we passed into sudden quietude under an old gateway, and 
drove on througli a silent square until we came to an odd nook in 
a corner, wliere there was an entrance up a steep, broad flight of 
stairs, like an entrance to a church. And there really was a 
churchyard, outside under some cloisters, for I saw the gravestones 
from the staircase window. 

Tliis was Kenge and Carboy's. Tlie young gentleman showed 
me through an outer office into Mr. Kenge's room — there was no 
one in it — and politely put an arm-chair for me by the fire. He 



26 BLEAK HOUSE. 

tlien called my attention to a little looking-glass, hanging from a 
nail on one side of the chimney-piece. 

" In case you should wish to look at yourself, miss, after the 
journey, as you're going before the Chancellor. Not that it's 
requisite, I am sure," said the young gentleman civilly. 

" Going before the Chancellor? " I said, startled for a moment. 

" Only a matter of form, miss, "returned the young gentleman. 
" Mr. Kenge is in Court now. He left his compliments, and would 
you partake of some refreshment ; " there were biscuits and a 
decanter of wine on a small table ; " and look over the paper ; " 
which the young gentleman gave me as he spoke. He then stirred 
the fire, and left me. 

Everything was so strange — the stranger for its being night 
in the day-time, the candles burning with a Avhite flame, and look- 
ing raw and cold — that I read the words in the newspaper with- 
out knowing what they meant, and found myself reading the same 
words repeatedly. As it was of no use going on in that way, I 
put the paper down, took a peep at my bonnet in the glass to see 
if it was neat, and looked at the room which was not half lighted, 
and at the shabby dusty tables, and at the piles of writings, and 
at a bookcase full of the most inexpressive-looking books that ever 
had anything to say for themselves. Then I went on, thinking, 
thinking, thinking ; and the fire went on, burning, burning, burn- 
ing ; and the candles went on flickering and guttering, and there 
were no snuffers — until the young gentleman by-and-bye brought a 
very dirty pair ; for two hours. 

At last Mr. Kenge came. He was not altered ; but he was 
surprised to see how altered I was, and appeared quite pleased. 
"As you are going to be the companion of the young lady who is 
now in the Chancellor's private room. Miss Summerson," he said, 
" we thought it well that you should be in attendance also. You 
will not be discomposed by the Lord Chancellor, I dare say % " 

"No, sir," I said, "I don't think I shall." Really not seeing, 
on consideration, why I should be. 

So Mr. Kenge gave me his arm, and we went round the corner, 
under a colonnade, and in at a side door. And so we came, along 
a passage, into a comfortable sort of room, where a young lady and 
a young gentleman were standing near a great, loud-roaring fire. 
A screen was interposed between them and it, and they were lean- 
ing on the screen, talking. 

They both looked up when I came in, and I saw in the young 
lady, with the fire shining upon her, such a beautiful girl ! With 
such rich golden hair, such soft blue eyes, and such a bright, inno- 
cent, trusting face ! 



BLEAK HOUSE. 27 

"Miss Ada," said Mr. Kenge, "this is Miss Summerson." 

She came to meet me with a smile of welcome and her hand 
extended, but seemed to change her mind in a moment, and kissed 
me. In short, she had such a natural, captivating, winning man- 
ner, that in a few minutes we were sitting in the window-seat, with 
the light of the fire upon us, talking together, as free and liappy 
as could be. 

What a load off my mind ! It was so delightful to know that 
she could confide in me, and like me ! it was so good of her, and 
so encouraging to me ! 

The young gentleman was her distant cousin, she told me, and 
his name Richard Carstone. He was a handsome youth, with an 
ingenuous face, and a most engaging laugh ; and after she had 
called him up to where we sat, he stood by us, in the light of the 
fire too, talking gaily, like a light-hearted boy. He was very 
young ; not more than nineteen then, if quite so much, but nearly 
two years older than she was. They were both orphans, and (what 
was very unexpected and curious to me) had never met before that 
day. Our all three coming together for the first time, in such an 
unusual place, was a thing to talk about ; and we talked about it ; 
and the fire, which had left off" roaring, winked its red eyes at us 
— as Richard said — like a drowsy old Cliancery lion. 

We conversed in a low tone, because a full-dressed gentleman in 
a bag wig frequently came in and out, and when he did so, we 
could hear a drawling sound in the distance, which he said was 
one of the counsel in our case addressing the Lord Chancellor. He 
told Mr. Kenge that the Chancellor would be up in five minutes ; 
and presently we heard a bustle, and a tread of feet, and Mr. Kenge 
said that the Court had risen, and his lordship was in the next 
room. 

The gentleman in the bag wig opened the door almost directly, 
and requested Mr. Kenge to come in. Upon that, we all went 
into the next room ; Mr. Kenge first, with my darling — it is so 
natural to me now, that I can't help writing it ; and there, plainly 
dressed in black, and sitting in an arm-chair at a table near the 
fire, was his lordship, whose robe, trimmed with beautiful gold-lace, 
was thrown upon another chair. He gave us a searching look as 
we entered, but his manner was both courtly and kind. 

The gentleman in the bag wig laid bundles of papers on his 
lordship's table, and his lordship silently selected one, and turned 
over the leaves. 

" Miss Clare," said the Lord Chancellor. " Miss Ada Clare ? " 

Mr. Kenge presented her, and his lordship begged her to sit 
down near him. That he admired her, and was interested by her, 



28 BLEAK HOUSE. 

even / could see in a moment. It touched me, that the home of 
such a beautiful young creature should be represented by that dry 
official place. The Lord High Chancellor, at his best, appeared so 
poor a substitute for the love and pride of parents. 

" The Jarndyce in question," said the Lord Cha,ncellor, still turn- 
ing over leaves, " is Jarndyce of Bleak House." 

" Jarndyce of Bleak House, my lord," said Mr. Kenge. 

"A dreary name," said the Lord Chancellor. 

"But not a dreary place at present, my lord," said Mr. Kenge. 

"And Bleak House," said his lordship, "is in " 

"Hertfordshire, my lord." 

" Mr. Jarndyce of Bleak House is not married ? " said his lord- 
ship. 

"He is not, my lord," said Mr. Kenge. 

A pause. 

"Young Mr. Richard Carstone is present?" said the Lord Chan- 
cellor, glancing towards him. 

Richard bowed and stepped forward. 

" Hum ! " said the Lord Chancellor, turning over more leaves. 

" Mr. Jarndyce of Bleak House, my lord," Mr. Kenge observed, 
in a low voice, " if I may venture to remind your lordship, provides 
a suitable companion for " 

" For Mr. Richard Carstone 1 " I thought (but I am not quite 
sure) I heard his lordship say, in an equally low voice, and with a 
smile. 

"For Miss Ada Clare. This is the young lady. Miss Sum- 
merson." 

His lordship gave me an indulgent look, and acknowledged my 
curtsey very graciously. 

" Miss Summerson is not i-elated to any party in the cause, I 
think ? " 

" No, my lord." 

Mr. Kenge leant over before it was quite said, and whispered. 
His lordship, with his eyes upon his papers, listened, nodded twice 
or thrice, turned over more leaves, and did not look towards me 
again, until we were going away. 

Mr. Kenge now retired, and Richard with him, to where I was, 
near the door, leaving my pet (it is so natural to me that again I 
can't help it !) sitting near the Lord Chancellor ; with whom his 
lordship spoke a little apart ; asking her, as she told me afterwards, 
whether she had well reflected on the proposed arrangement, and 
if she thought she would be happy under the roof of Mr. Jarndyce 
of Bleak House, and why she thought so ? Presently he rose cour- 
teously, and released her, and then he spoke for a minute or two 



,^ 




^ 






I.MfWWfl 



MH">;ii 



XHE LITTLE OLD LADY. 



30 BLEAK HOUSE. 

with Richard Carstone ; not seated, but standing, and altogether 
with more ease and less ceremony — as if he still knew, though he 
was Lord Chancellor, how to go straight to the candour of a boy. 

" Very well ! " said his lordship aloud. " I shall make the order. 
Mr. Jarndyce of Bleak House has chosen, so far as I may judge," 
and this was when he looked at me, " a very good companion for 
the young lady, and the arrangement altogether seems the best of 
which the circumstances admit." 

He dismissed us pleasantly, and we all went out, very much 
obliged to him for being so affable and polite ; by which he had 
certainly lost no dignity, but seemed to us to have gained some. 

When we got under the colonnade, Mr. Kenge remembered that 
he must go back for a moment, to ask a question ; and left us in 
the fog, with the Lord Chancellor's carriage anil servants waiting 
for him to come out. 

" Well ! " said Richard Carstone, " that's over ! And where do 
we go next, Miss Summerson ? " 

" Don't you know ? " I said. 

" Not in the least," said he. 

" And don't you know, my love ? " I asked Ada. 

" No ! " said W. " Don't you 1 " 

"Not at all! "said L 

We looked at one another, half laughing at our being like the 
children in the wood, when a curious little old woman in a squeezed 
bonnet, and carrying a reticule, came curtseying and smiling up to 
us, with an air of great ceremony. 

" ! " said she. " The wards in Jarndyce ! Vc-ry happy, I 
am sure, to have the honour ! It is a good omen for youth, and 
hope, and beauty, when they find themselves in this place, and 
don't know what's to come of it." 

" Mad ! " whispered Richard, not thinking she could hear him. 

" Right ! Mad, young gentleman," she returned so quickly that 
he was quite abashed. " I was a ward myself I was not mad at 
that time," curtseying low, and smiling between every little sen- 
tence. "I had youth, and hope. I believe, beauty. It matters 
very little now. Neither of the three served, or saved me. I have 
the honour to attend Court regularly. With my documents. I 
expect a judgment. Shortly. On the Day of Judgment. I have 
discovered that the sixth seal mentioned in the Revelations is the 
Great Seal. It has been open a long time ! Pray accept my 
blessing." 

As Ada was a little frightened, I said, to humour the poor old 
lady, that we were much obliged to her. 

"Ye-es!" she said, mincingly. "I imagine so. And here is 



BLEAK HOUSE. 31 

Conversation Kongo. With his documents ! How does your 
honourable worship do 1 " 

" Quite well, quite well ! Now don't be troublesome, that's a 
good soul ! " said Mr. Kenge, leading the way back. 

" By no means," said the jioor old lady, keeping up with Ada 
and me. "Anything but troublesome. I shall confer estates on 
both, — which is not being troublesome, I trust 1 I expect a judg- 
ment. Shortly. On the Day of Judgment. This is a good omen 
for you. Accept my blessing ! " 

She stopped at the bottom of the steep, broad flight of stairs ; 
but we looked back as we went up, and she was still there, saying, 
still with a curtsey and a smile between every little sentence, 
"Youth. And hope. And beauty. And Chancery. And Con- 
versation Kenge ! Ha ! Pray accept my blessing ! " 



CHAPTER IV. 

TELESCOPIC PHILANTHROPY. 

We were to pass the night, Mr. Kenge told us when we arrived 
in his room, at Mrs. Jellyby's ; and then he turned to me, and said 
he took it for granted I knew who Mrs. Jellyby was ? 

"I really don't, sir," I returned. "Perhaps Mr. Carstone — ^or 
Miss Clare " 

But no, they knew nothing whatever about Mrs. Jellyby. 

" In-deed ! Mrs. Jellyby," said Mr. Kenge, standing with his 
back to the fire, and casting his eyes over the dusty hearthiTig as 
if it were Mrs. Jellyby's biography, "is a lady of very remarkable 
strength of character, who devotes herself entirely to the public. 
She has devoted herself to an extensive variety of public subjects, 
at various times, and is at present (until something else attracts 
her) devoted to the subject of Africa ; with a view to the general 
cultivation of the coffee berry — aiid the natives — and the happy 
settlement, on the banks of the African rivers, of our superabundant 
home population. Mr. Jarndyce, who is desirous to aid in any work 
that is considered likely to be a good work, and who is much sought 
after by philanthropists, has, I believe, a very high opinion of Mrs. 
Jellyby." 

Mr. Kenge, adjusting his cravat, then looked at us. 

"And Mr. Jellyby, sir?" suggested Richard. 

"Ah ! Mr. Jellyby," said Mr. Kenge, "is — a — I don't know 



32 BLEAK HOUSE. 

that I can describe him to you better than by saying that he is the 
husband of Mrs. Jelly by." 

" A nonentity, sir ? " said Richard, with a droll look. 

" I don't say that," returned Mr. Kenge, gravely. " I can't say 
that, indeed, for I know nothing whatever of Mr. Jellyby. I never, 
to my knowledge, had the pleasure of seeing Mr. Jellyby. He may 
be a very superior man ; but he is, so to speak, merged — Merged. , 
— in the more shining qualities of his wife." Mr. Kenge proceede(M| 
to tell us that as the road to Bleak House would have been very" 
long, dark, and tedious, on such an evening, and as we had 
been travelling already, Mr. Jarndyce had himself proposed this 
arrangement. A carriage would be at Mrs. Jellyby's to convey us 
out of town, early in the forenoon of to-morrow. 

He then rang a little bell, and the young gentleman came in. 
Addressing him by the name of Gupi^y, Mr. Kenge inquired 
whether Miss Summerson's boxes and the rest of the baggage had 
been "sent round." Mr. Guppy said yes, they had been sent 
round, and a coach was waiting to take us round too, as soon as 
we pleased. 

"Then it only remains," said Mr. Kenge, shaking hands with 
us, "for me to express my lively satisfaction in (good day. Miss 
Clare ! ) the arrangement this day concluded, and my {good bye to 
you. Miss Summerson ! ) lively hope that it will conduce to the 
happiness, the (glad to have had the honour of making your 
acquaintance, Mr. Carstone ! ) welfare, the advantage in all points 
of view, of all concerned ! Guppy, see the party safely there." 

"Where k 'there,' Mr. Guppy?" said Richard, as we went 
down-stairs. 

"No distance," said Mr. Guppy; "roimd in Thavies Inn, you 
know." 

" I can't say I know where it is, for I come from Winchester, 
and am strange in London." 

" Only round the corner," said Mr. GupjDy. " We just twist up 
Chancery Lane, and cut along Holborn, and there we are in four 
minutes' time, as near as a toucher. This is about a London par- 
ticular now, ain't it, miss ? " He seemed quite delighted with it 
on my account. 

" The fog is very dense, indeed ! " said I. 

"Not that it affects you, though, I am sure," said Mr. Guppy, 
putting up the steps. " On the contrary, it seems to do you good, 
miss, judging from your appearance." 

I knew he meant well in paying me this compliment, so I 
laughed at myself for blushing at it, when he had shut the door 
and got upon the box ; and we all three laughed, and chatted about 



BLEAK HOUSE. 33 

our inexperience, and the strangeness of London, until we turned up 
under an archway, to our destination : a narrow street of high houses, 
like an oblong cistern to hold the fog. There was a confused little 
crowd of people, principally children, gathered about the house at 
which we stojiped, which had a tarnished brass plate on the door, 
with the inscription, Jellyby. 

" Don't be frightened ! " said Mr. Guppy, looking in at the 
coach-window. " One of the young Jelly bys's been and got his head 
through the area railings 1 " 

" poor child," said I, "■ let me out, if you please ! " 

" Pray be careful of yourself, miss. The young Jellybys are 
always up to something," said Mr. Guppy. 

I made my way to the poor child, who was one of the dirtiest 
little unfortunates I ever saw, and found him very hot and fright- 
ened, and crying loudly, fixed by the neck between two iron railings, 
while a milkman and a beadle, with the kindest intentions possible, 
were endeavouring to drag him back by the legs, under a general 
impression that his skull was compressible by those means. As I 
found (after pacifying him), that he was a little boy, with a natu- 
rally large head, I thought that, perhaps, where his head could go, 
his body could follow, and mentioned that the best mode of extrica- 
tion might be to push him forward. This was so favourably 
received by the milkman and beadle, that he would immediately 
have been pushed into the area, if I had not held his pinafore, while 
Richard and Mr. Guppy ran down through the kitchen, to catch 
him when he should be released. At last he was happily got down 
without any accident, and then he began to beat Mr. Guppy with 
a hoop-stick in quite a frantic manner. 

Nobody had appeared belonging to the house, except a person 
in pattens, who had been poking at the child from below with a 
broom ; I don't know with what object, and I don't think she did. 
I therefore supposed that Mrs. Jellyby was not at home ; and was 
quite surprised when the person appeared in the passage without 
the pattens, and going up to the back room on the first floor, before 
Ada and me, announced us as, " Them two young ladies. Missis 
Jellyby ! " We passed several more children on the way up, 
whom it was difficult to avoid treading on in the dark ; and as we 
came into Mrs. Jellyby's presence, one of the poor little things fell 
down-stairs — down a whole flight (as it sounded to me), with a 
great noise. 

Mrs. Jellyby, whose face reflected none of the uneasiness which 
we could not help showing in our own faces, as the dear child's 
head recorded its passage with a bump on every stair — Richard 
afterwards said he counted seven, besides one for the landing — 



34 BLEAK HOUSE. 

received us with perfect equanimity. She was a pretty, very 
diminutive, phimp woman, of from forty to fifty, with handsome 
eyes, though they had a curious habit of seeming to look a long 
way off. As if — I am quoting Richard again — they could see 
nothing nearer than Africa ! 

" I am very glad indeed," said Mrs. Jelly by, in an agreeable 
voice, "to have the pleasure of receiving you. I have a great 
respect for Mr. Jarndyce ; and no one in whom he is interested 
can be an object of indifference to me." 

We expressed our acknowledgments, and sat down behind the 
door where there was a lame invalid of a sofa. Mrs. Jellyby had 
very good hair, but was too much occupied with her African dutiesi 
to brush it. The shawl in which she had been loosely muffled, 
dropped on to her chair when she advanced to us ; and as she 
turned to resume her seat, we could not help noticing that her 
dress didn't nearly meet up the back, and that the open space was 
railed across with a lattice-work of stay-lace — like a summer- 
house. 

The room, which was strewn with papers and nearly filled by a 
great writing-table covered with similar litter, was, I must say, not 
only very untidy, but very dirty. We were obliged to take notice 
of that with our sense of sight, even while, with our sense of hear- 
ing, we followed the poor child who had tumbled down-stairs : I 
think into the back kitchen, where somebody seemed to stifle him. 

But what principally struck us was a jaded, and unhealthy- 
looking, though by no means plain girl, at the writing-table, who sat 
biting the feather of her pen, and staring at us. I suppose nobody 
ever was in such a state of ink. And, from her tumbled hair to 
her pretty feet, which were disfigured with frayed and broken 
satin slippers trodden down at heel, she really seemed to have no 
article of dress upon her, from a pin upwards, that was in its 
proper condition or its right place. 

" You find me, my dears," said Mrs. Jellyby, snuffing the two 
great office candles in tin candlesticks which made the room taste 
strongly of hot tallow (the fire had gone out, and there was nothing 
in the grate but ashes, a bundle of wood, and a poker), "you find 
me, my dears, as usual, very busy ; but that you will excuse. The 
African project at present employs my whole time. It involves me 
in correspondence with public bodies, and with private individuals 
anxious for the welfare of their species all over the country. I am 
happy to say it is advancing. We hope by this time next year to 
have from a hundred and fifty to two hundred healthy families cul- 
tivating coffee and educating the natives of Borrioboola-Gha, on the 
left bank of the Niger." 



BLEAK HOUSE. .35 

As Ada said nothing, but looked at me, I said it must be very 
gratifying. 

" It is gratifying," said Mrs. Jellyby. " It involves the devotion 
of all my energies, such as they are ; but that is nothing, so that 
it succeeds ; and I am more confident of success every day. Do 
you know, Miss Summerson, I almost wonder that i/oit never turned 
your thoughts to Africa." 

This application of the subject was really so unexpected to me, 
that I was quite at a loss how to receive it. I hinted that the 
climate 

" The finest climate in the world ! " said Mrs. Jellyby. 

" Indeed, ma'am ? " 

" Certainly. With precaution," said Mrs. Jellyby. " You may 
go into Holborn, without precaution, and be run over. You may 
go into Holborn, with precaution, and never be run over. Just so 
with Africa." 

I said, " No doubt." — I meant as to Holborn. 

" If you would like," said Mrs. Jellyby, putting a number of 
papers towards us, " to look over some remarks on that head, and 
un the general subject (which have been extensively circulated), 
while I finish a letter I am now dictating — to my eldest daughter, 
who is my amanuensis " 

The girl at the table left off biting her pen, and made a return 
to our recognition, which was half bashful and half sulky. 

" — I shall then have finished for the present," proceeded Mrs. 
Jellyby, with a sweet smile ; " though my work is never done. 
Where are you, Caddy ? " 

" ' Presents her compliments to Mr. Swallow, and begs ' " 

said Caddy. 

" 'And begs,' "said Mrs. Jellyby, dictating, " 'to inform him, in 
reference to his letter of inquiry on the African project.' — No, 
Peepy ! Not on any account ! " 

Peepy (so self-named) was the unfortunate child who had fallen 
down-stairs, who now interrupted the correspondence by presenting 
himself, with a strip of plaister on his forehead, to exhibit his 
wounded knees, in which Ada and I did not know which to pity 
most — the bruises or the dirt. Mrs. Jellyby merely added, with 
the serene composure with which she said everything, " Go along, 
you naughty Peepy ! " and fixed her fine eyes on Africa again. 

However, as she at once proceeded with her dictation, and as I 
interrupted nothing by doing it, I ventured quietly to stop poor 
Peepy as he was going out, and to take him up to nurse. He 
looked very much astonished at it, and at Ada's kissing him ; but 
soon fell fast asleep in my arms, sobbing at longer and longer in- 



36 BLEAK HOUSE. 

tervals, until he was quiet. I was so occupied with Peepy that I 
lost the letter in detail, though I derived such a general impression 
from it of the momentous importance of Africa, and the utter 
insignificance of all other places and things, that I felt quite 
ashamed to have thought so little about it. 

"Six o'clock!" said Mrs. Jellyby. "And our dinner hour is 
nominally (for we dine at all hours) five ! Caddy, show Miss 
Clare and Miss Summerson their rooms. You will like to make 
some change, perhaps ? You will excuse me, I know, being so 
much occupied. 0, that very bad child ! Pray put him down. 
Miss Summerson ! " 

I begged permission to retain him, truly saying that he was not 
at all troublesome ; and carried him up-stairs and laid him on my 
bed. Ada and I had two upper rooms, with a door of communi- 
cation between. They were excessively bare and disorderly, and 
the curtain to my window was fastened up with a fork. 

"You would like some hot Avater, wouldn't you?" said Miss 
Jellyby, looking round for a jug with a handle to it, but looking in 
vain. 

" If it is not being troublesome," said we. 

"0, it's not the trouble," returned Miss Jellyby; "the question 
is, if there is any." 

The evening was so very cold, and the rooms had such a marshy 
smell, that I must confess it was a little miserable ; and Ada was 
half crying. We soon laughed, however, and were busily unpack- 
ing, when Miss Jellyby came back to say, that she was sorry there 
was no hot water ; but they couldn't find the kettle, and the boiler 
was out of order. 

We begged her not to mention it, and made all the haste we 
could to get down to the fire again. But all the little children 
had come up to the landing outside, to look at the phenomenon 
of Peepy lying on my bed ; and our attention was distracted by 
the constant apparition of noses and fingers, in situations of danger 
between the hinges of the doors. It was impossible to shut the 
door of either room ; for my lock, with no knob to it, looked as 
if it wanted to be wound up ; and though the handle of Ada's 
went round and round with the greatest smoothness, it was at- 
tended with no effect whatever on the door. Therefore I proposed 
to the children that they should come in and be very good at my 
table, and I would tell them the story of Little Red Riding Hood 
while I dressed ; which they did, and were as quiet as mice, in- 
cluding Peepy, who awoke opportunely before the appearance of 
the wolf. 

When we went down-stairs we found a mug, with " A Present 



BLEAK HOUSE. 37 

from Tunbridge Wells " on it, lighted up in the staircase window 
with a floating wick ; and a young woman, with a swelled face 
bound up in a flannel bandage, blowing the fire of the drawing- 
room (now connected by an open door with Mrs. Jellyby's room), 
and choking dreadfully. It smoked to that degree in short, that 
we all sat coughing and crying with the windows open for half an 
hour ; during which Mrs. Jellyby, with the same sweetness of 
temper, directed letters about Africa. Her being so employed was, 
I must say, a great relief to me ; for Richard told us that he had 
washed his hands in a pie-dish, and that they had found the kettle 
on his dressing-table ; and he made Ada laugh so, that they made 
me laugh in the most ridiculous manner. 

Soon after seven o'clock we went down to dinner ; carefully, by 
Mrs. Jellyby's advice ; for the stair-carpets, besides being very 
deficient in stair-wires, were so torn as to be absolute traps. We 
had a fine cod-fish, a piece of roast beef, a dish of cutlets, and 
a pudding ; an excellent dinner, if it had had any cooking to 
speak of, but it was almost raw. The young woman with the 
flannel bandage waited, and dropped everything on the table wher- 
ever it happened to go, and never moved it again until she put it 
on the stairs. The person I had seen in pattens (who I suppose 
to have been the cook), frequently came and skirmished with her 
at the door, and there appeared to be ill-will between them. 

All through dinner ; which was long, in consequence of such 
accidents as the dish of potatoes being mislaid in the coal skuttle, 
and the handle of the cork-screw coming off, and striking the 
young woman in the chin ; Mrs. Jellyby preserved the evenness 
of her disposition. She told us a great deal that was interesting 
about Borrioboola-Gha and the natives ; and received so many 
letters that Richard, who sat by her, saw four envelopes in the 
gravy at once. Some of the letters were proceedings of ladies' 
committees, or resolutions of ladies' meetings, which she read to 
us ; otliers were applications from people excited in various Avays 
about the cultivation of cofffee, and natives ; others required an- 
swers, and these she sent her eldest daughter from the table three 
or four times to write. She was full of business, and undoubtedly 
was, as she had told us, devoted to the cause. 

I was a little curious to know who a mild bald gentleman in 
spectacles was, who dropped into a vacant chair (there was no 
top or bottom in particular) after the fish was taken away, and 
seemed passively to submit himself to Borrioboola-Gha, but not 
to be actively interested in that settlement. As he never spoke 
a word, he might have been a native, but for his complexion. It 
was not until we left the table, and he remained alone with 



38 BLEAK HOUSE. 



I 



Richard, that the possibility of his being Mr. Jellyby ever entered 
my head. But he 7vas Mr. Jellyby ; and a loquacious young man 
called Mr. Quale, with large shining knobs for temples, and his 
hair all brushed to the back of his head, who came in the evening, 
and told Ada he was a philanthropist, also informed her that he 
called the matrimonial alliance of Mrs. Jellyby with Mr. Jellyby 
the union of mind and matter. 

This young man, besides having a great deal to say for himself 
about Africa, and a project of his for teaching the coffee colonists 
to teach the natives to turn piano-forte legs and establish an export 
trade, delighted in drawing Mrs. Jellyby out by saying, "I believe 
now, Mrs. Jellyby, you have received as many as from one hundred 
and fifty to two hundred letters respecting Africa in a single day, 
have you not ? " or, " If my memory does not deceive me, Mrs. 
Jellyby, you once mentioned that you had sent off five thousand 
circulars from one post-office at one time 1 " — always repeating Mrs. 
Jellyby's answer to us like an interpreter. During the whole even- 
ing, Mr. Jellyby sat in a corner with his head against the wall, as 
if he were subject to low spirits. It seemed that he had several 
times opened his mouth when alone with Richard, after dinner, 
as if he had something on his mind ; but had always shut it again, 
to Richard's extreme confusion, without saying anything. 

Mrs. Jellyby, sitting in quite a nest of waste paper, drank coffee 
all the evening, and dictated at intervals to her eldest daughter. 
She also held a discussion with Mr. Quale ; of which the subject 
seemed to be — if I understood it — the Brotherhood of Humanity ; 
and gave utterance to some beautiful sentiments. I was not so 
attentive an auditor as I might have wished to be, however, for 
Peepy and the other children came flocking about Ada and me in 
a corner of the drawing-room to ask for another story ; so we sat 
down among them, and told them in whispers Puss in Boots and 
I don't know what else, until Mrs. Jellyby, accidentally remember- 
ing them, sent them to bed. As Peepy cried for me to take him 
to bed, I carried him up-stairs ; where the young woman with the 
flannel bandage charged into the midst of the little family like a 
dragoon, and overturned them into cribs. 

After that, I occupied myself in making our room a little tidy, 
and in coaxing a very cross fire that had been lighted, to burn ; 
which at last it did, quite brightly. On my return down-stairs, I 
felt that Mrs. Jellyby looked down upon me rather, for being so 
frivolous ; and I was sorry for it ; though at the same time I knew 
that I had no higher pretensions. 

It was nearly midnight before we found an opportunity of 
going to bed ; and even then we left Mrs. Jellyby among her 



BLEAK HOUSE. 39 

pai;)crs drinking cotFee, and Miss Jellyby biting the feather of her 
pen. 

"What a strange house!" said Ada, when we got up-stairs. 
" How curious of my cousin Jarndyce to send us here ! " 

"My love," said I, "it quite confuses me. I want to under- 
stand it, and I can't understand it at all." 

" What ? " asked Ada, with her pretty smile. 

"All this, my dear," said I. "It must be very good of Mrs. 
Jellyby to take such pains about a scheme for the benefit of 
Natives — and yet — Peejjy and the housekeeping ! " 

Ada laughed ; and put her arm about my neck, as I stood look- 
ing at the fire ; and told me I was a quiet, dear, good creature, 
and had won her heart. " You are so thoughtful, Esther," she 
said, " and yet so cheerful ! and you do so much, so unpretend- 
ingly ! You would make a home out of even this house." 

My simple darling ! She was quite unconscious that she only 
praised herself, and that it was in the goodness of her own heart 
that she made so much of me ! 

" May I ask you a question ? " said I, when we had sat before 
the fire a little while. 

" Five hundred," said Ada. 

" Your cousin, Mr. Jarndyce. I owe so much to him. Would 
you mind describing him to me ? " 

Shaking back her golden hair, Ada turned her eyes upon me with 
such laughing wonder, that I was full of wonder too — partly at 
her beauty, partly at her surprise. 

" Estlier ! " she cried. 

" My dear ! " 

" You want a description of my cousin Jarndyce ? " 

" My dear, I never saw him." 

" And / never saw him ! " returned Ada. 

Well, to be sure ! 

No, she had never seen him. Young as she was when her mama 
died, she remembered how the tears would come into her eyes when 
she spoke of him, and of the noble generosity of his character, 
which she had said was to be trusted above all earthly things ; 
and Ada trusted it. Her cousin Jarndyce had written to her a few 
months ago, — "a plain, honest letter," Ada said — i^roposing the 
arrangement we were now to enter on, and telling her that, "in 
time it might heal some of the wounds made by the miserable 
Chancery suit." She had replied, gratefully accepting his proposal. 
Richard had received a similar letter, and had made a similar re- 
sponse. He had seen Mr. Jarndyce once, but only once, five years 
ago, at Winchester school. He had told Ada, when they were 




MISS JELLYBV 



BLEAK HOUSE. 41 

leaning on the screen before the tire where I found them, that he 
recollected him as "a bluff, rosy fellow." This was the utmost 
description Ada could give me. 

It set me thinking so, that when Ada was asleep, I still remained 
before the fire, wondering and wondering about Bleak House, and 
wondering and wondering that yesterday morning should seem so 
long ago. I don't know where my thoughts had wandered, when 
they were recalled by a tajD at the door. 

I opened it softly, and found Miss Jellyby shivering there, with 
a broken candle in a broken candlestick in one hand, and an egg- 
cup in the other. 

" Good night ! " she said, very sulkily. 

" Good night ! " said I. 

" May I come in 1 " she slaortly and unexpectedly asked me in 
the same sulky way. 

" Certainly," said I. " Don't wake Miss Clare." 

She would not sit down, but stood by the fire, dipping her inky 
middle finger in the egg-cup, which contained vinegar, and smear- 
ing it over the ink stains on her face ; frowning, the whole time, 
and looking very gloomy. 

" I wish Africa was dead ! " she said, on a sudden. 

I was going to remonstrate. 

" I do ! " she said. " Don't talk to me. Miss Summerson. I 
hate it and detest it. It's a beast ! " 

I told her she was tired, and I was sorry. I put my hand upon 
her head, and touched her forehead, and said it was hot now, but 
would be cool to-morrow. She still stood, pouting and frowning 
at me ; but presently put down her egg-cup, and turned softly 
towards the bed where Ada lay. 

" She is very pretty ! " she said, with the same knitted brow, and 
in the same uncivil manner. 

I assented with a smile. 

" An orphan. Ain't she ? " 

" Yes." 

" But knows a quantity, I suppose 1 Can dance, and play music, 
and sing 1 She can talk French, I suppose, and do geography, and 
globes, and needlework, and everything 1 " 

"No doubt," said I. 

"/can't," she returned. "I can't do anything hardly, except 
write. I'm always writing for Ma. I wonder you two were not 
ashamed of yourselves to come in this afternoon, and see nie able 
to do nothing else. It was like your ill-nature. Yet you think 
yourselves very fine, I dare say ! " 

I could see that the poor girl was near crying, and I resumed my 



42 BLEAK HOUSE. 

chair without speaking, and looked at her (I hope) as mildly as I 
felt towards her. 

" It's disgraceful," she said. " You know it is. The whole house 
is disgraceful. The children are disgraceful. 7'm disgraceful. Pa's 
miserable, and no wonder ! Priscilla drinks — she's always drink- 
ing. It's a great shame and a great story, of you, if you say you 
didn't' smell her to-day. It was as bad as a public-house, waiting 
at dinner ; you know it was ! " 

"My dear, I don't know it," said I. 

" You do," she said, very shortly. " You shan't say you don't. 
You do ! " 

" 0, my dear ! " said I, " if you won't let me speak " 

" You're speaking now. You know you are. Don't tell stories, 
Miss Summerson." 

" My dear," said I, " as long as you won't hear me out " 

"I don't want to hear you out." 

" yes, I think you do," said I, "because that would be so very 
unreasonable. I did not know what you tell me, because the servant 
did not come near me at dinner ; but I don't doubt what you tell 
me, and I am sorry to hear it." 

"You needn't make a merit of that," said she. 

" No, my dear," said I. " That would be very foolish." 

She was still standing by the bed, and now stooped down (but 
still with the same discontented face) and kissed Ada. That done, 
she came softly back, and stood by the side of my chair. Her 
bosom was heaving in a distressful manner that I greatly pitied ; 
but I thought it better not to speak. 

" I wish I was dead ! " she broke out. " I wish we were all 
dead. It would be a great deal better for us." 

In a moment afterwards, she knelt on the ground at my side, 
hid her face in my dress, passionately begged my pardon, and wept. 
I comforted her, and would have raised her, but she cried, No, no ; 
she wanted to stay there ! 

"You used to teach girls," she said. "If you could only have 
taught me, I could have learnt from you ! I am so very miserable, 
and I like you so much ! " 

I could not persuade her to sit by me, or to do anything but 
move a ragged stool to where she was kneeling, and take that, and 
still hold my dress in the same manner. By degrees, the poor; 
tired girl fell asleep ; and then I contrived to raise her head so 
that it should rest on my lap, and to cover us both with shawls 
The fire went out, and all night long she slumbered thus before 
the ashy grate. At first I was painfully awake, and vainly tried 
to lose myself, with my eyes closed, among the scenes of the day. 



HLEAK HOUSE. 43 

At lengtli, by slow degrees, they becume iiulistiiict and mingled. I 
began to lose the identity of the sleeper resting on me. Now, it 
was Ada ; now, one of my old Reading friends from whom I could 
not believe I had so recently parted. Now, it was the little mad 
woman worn out with curtseying and smiling ; now, some one in 
authority at Bleak House. Lastly, it was no one, and I was no one. 
The purblind day was feebly struggling with the fog, when I 
opened my eyes to encounter those of a dirty-faced little spectre 
fixed upon me. Peepy had scaled his crib, and crept down in his 
bedgown and cap, and was so cold that his teeth were chattering 
as if he had cut them all. 



CHAPTER V. 

A M0RNIN(4 ADVENTURE. 

ALTHuirciH the morning was raw, and although the fog still 
seemed heavy — I say seemed, for the windows were so encrusted 
^vitll dirt, that they would have made Midsummer sunshine dim 
— I was sufficiently forewarned of the discomfort within doors at 
that early hour, and sufficiently ciu"ious about London, to think 
it a good idea on the part of Miss Jellyby when she proposed that 
we should go out for a walk. 

"Ma won't be down for ever so long," she said, "and then it's 
a chance if breakfast's ready for an hour afterwards, they dawdle 
so. As to Pa, he gets what he can, and goes to the office. He 
never has what you w^ould call a regular breakfast. Priscilla leaves 
him out the loaf and some milk, when there is any, over night. 
Sometimes there isn't any milk, and sometimes the cat drinks it. 
But Pm afraid you nmst be tired, Miss Summerson ; and perhaj^s 
you would rather go to bed." 

"I am not at all tired, my dear," said I, "and would much 
prefer to go out." 

"If you're sure you would," returned Miss Jellyby, "I'll get 
ray things on." 

Ada said she would go too, and was soon astir. I made a pro- 
posal to Peepy, in default of being able to do anything better for 
him, that he should let me wash him, and afterwards lay him down 
on my bed again. To this he submitted with the best grace 
possible ; staring at me during the whole operation, as if he never 
had been, and never could again be, so astonished in his life — 
looking very miserable also, certainly, but making no complaint, 



44 BLEAK HOUSE. 

and going snugly to sleep as soon as it was over. At first I was 
in two minds about taking such a liberty, but I soon reflected that 
nobody in the house was likely to notice it. 

What with the bustle of dispatching Peepy, and the bustle of 
getting myself ready, and helping Ada, I was soon quite in a glow. 
We found Miss Jellyby trying to warm herself at the fire in the 
writing-room, which Priscilla was then lighting with a smutty 
parlour candlestick — throwing the candle in to make it burn 
better. Everything was just as we had left it last night, and was 
evidently intended to remain so. Below stairs the dinner-cloth 
had not been taken away, but had been left ready for breakfast. 
Crumbs, dust, and waste paper were all over the house. Some 
pewter-pots and a milk-can hung on the area railings; the door 
stood open ; and we met the cook round the corner coming out of 
a public-house, wiping her mouth. She mentioned, as she passed 
us, that she had been to see what o'clock it was. 

But before we met the cook, we met Richard, who was dancing 
up and down Thavies Inn to warm his feet. He was agreeably 
surprised to see us stirring so soon, and said he would gladly share 
our walk. So he took care of Ada, and Miss Jellyby and I went 
first. I may mention that Miss Jellyby had relapsed into her sulky 
manner, and that I really should not have thought she liked me 
much, unless she had told me so. 

" Where would you wish to go 1 " she asked. 

"Anywhere, my dear," I replied. 

" Anywhere's nowhere," said Miss Jellyby, stopping perversely. 

"Let us go somewhere at any rate," said I. 

She then walked me on very fast. 

" I don't care ! " she said. " Now, you are my witness, Miss 
Summerson, I say I don't care — but if he was to come to our 
house, with his great shining lumpy forehead, night after night, 
till he was as old as Methuselah, I wouldn't have anything to say 
to him. Such Asses as he and Ma make of themselves ! " 

" My dear ! " I remonstrated, in allusion to the epithet, and the 
vigorous emphasis Miss Jellyby set upon it. "Your duty as a 
child " 

" ! don't talk of duty as a child. Miss Summerson ; where's 
Ma's duty as a parent 1 AH made over to the public and Africa, 
I suppose ! Then let the public and Africa show duty as a child ; 
it's much more their aft'air than mine. You are shocked, I dare 
say ! Very well, so am I shocked too ; so we are both shocked, 
and there's an end of it ! " 

She walked me on faster yet. i 

"But for all that, I say again, he may come, and come, and 



BLEAK HOUSE. 45 

come, and I won't have anything to say to him. I can't bear him. 
If there's any stuff in the world that I hate and detest, it's the 
stuff he and Ma talk. I wonder the very paving-stones opposite 
onr house can have the patience to stay there, and be a witness of 
such inconsistencies and contradictions as all that sounding nonsense, 
and Ma's management ! " 

I could not but understand her to refer to Mr. Quale, the young 
gentleman who had appeared after dinner yesterday. I was saved 
the disagreeable necessity of pursuing the subject, by Richard and 
Ada coming up at a round pace, laughing, and asking us if we 
meant to run a race? Thus inten-upted, Miss Jellyby became 
silent, and walked moodily on at my side ; while I admired the 
long successions and varieties of streets, the quantity of people 
already going to and fro, the number of vehicles passing and re- 
passing, the busy preparations in the setting forth of shop windows 
and the sweeping out of shops, and the extraordinary creatures in 
rags, secretly groping among the swept-out rubbish for pins and 
other refuse. 

" So, cousin," said the cheerful voice of Richard to Ada, behind 
me. "We are never to get out of Chancery ! We have come by 
another way to our place of meeting yesterday, and — - by the Great 
Seal, here's the old lady again ! " 

Truly, there she was, immediately in front of us, curtseying and 
smiling, and saying, with her yesterday's air of patronage : 

" The wards in Jarndyce ! Ve-ry happy, I am sure ! " 

"You are out early, ma'am," said I, as she curtsied to me. 

" Ye-es ! I usually walk here early. Before the Court sits. 
It's retired. I collect my thoughts here for the business of the 
day," said the old lady, mincingly. " The business of the day 
requires a great deal of thought. Chancery justice is so ve-ry 
difficult to follow." 

" Who's this. Miss Summerson ? " whispered Miss Jellyby, draw- 
ing my arm tighter through her own. 

The little old lady's hearing was remarkably quick. She answered 
for herself directly. 

" A suitor, my child. At your service. I have the honour to 
attend court regularly. With my documents. Have I the pleasure 
of addressing another of the youthful parties in Jarndyce 1 " said 
the old lady, recovering herself, with her head on one side, from 
a very low curtsey. 

Richard, anxious to atone for his thoughtlessness of yesterday, 
good-naturedly explained that Miss Jellyby was not connected with 
the suit. 

" Ha ! " said the old lady. " She does not expect a judgment 1 



46 BLEAK HOUSE. 

She will still grow old. But not so old. O dear, no ! This is the 
garden of Lincoln's Inn. I call it my garden. It is quite a bower 
in the summer-time. Where the birds sing melodiously. I pass 
the greater part of the long vacation here. In contemplation. You 
find the long vacation exceedingly long, don't you 1 " 

We said yes, as she seemed to expect us to say so. 

" When the leaves are falling from the trees, and there are no 
more flowers in bloom to make up into nosegays for the Lord 
Chancellor's court," said the old lady, " the vacation is fulfilled ; 
and the sixth seal, mentioned in the Revelations, again prevails. 
Pray come and see my lodging. It will be a good omen for me. 
Youth, and hope, and beauty, are very seldom there. It is a long 
long time since I had a visit from either." 

She had taken my hand, and, leading me and Miss Jellyby away, 
beckoned Richard and Ada to come too. I did not know how to 
excuse myself, and looked to Richard for aid. As he was half 
amused and half curious, and all in doubt how to get rid of the 
old lady without offence, she continued to lead us away, and he 
and Ada continued to follow ; our strange conductress informing 
us all the time, with much smiling condescension, that she lived 
close by. 

It was quite true, as it soon appeared. She lived so close 
by, that we had not time to have done humouring her for a few 
moments, before she was at home. Slipping us out at a little side 
gate, the old lady stojjped most unexpectedly in a narrow back 
street, part of some courts and lanes immediately outside the wall 
of the Inn, and said, " This is my lodging. Pray walk up ! " 

She had stopped at a shop, over which was written, Krook, 
Rag and Bottle Warehouse. Also, in long thin letters, Krook, 
Dealer in Marine Stores. In one part of the window was a 
picture of a red paper mill, at which a cart was unloading a quan- 
tity of sacks of old rags. In another, was the inscription. Bones 
Bought. In another, Kitchen-Stuff Bought. In another. 
Old Iron Bought. In another. Waste Paper Bought. In 
another, Ladies' and Gentlemen's Wardrobes Bought. Every- 
thing seemed to be bought, and nothing to be sold there. In all 
parts of the window, were quantities of dirty bottles : blacking 
bottles, medicine bottles, ginger-beer and soda-Avater bottles, pickle 
bottles, wine bottles, ink bottles : I am reminded by mentioning 
the latter, that the shop had, in several little particulars, the air 
of being in a legal neighbourhood, and of being, as it were, a dirty 
hanger-on and disowned relation of the law. There were a great 
many ink bottles. There was a little tottering bench of shabby 
old volumes, outside the door, labelled " Law Books, all at 9d." 



BLEAK HOUSE. 47 

Some of the inscriptions I have enumerated were written in law- 
hand, like the papers I had seen in Kenge and Carboy's office, and 
the letters I had so long received from the firm. Among them 
was one, in the same writing, having nothing to do with the busi- 
ness of the shop, but announcing that a respectable man aged forty- 
five wanted engrossing or copying to execute with neatness and 
dispatch : Address to Nemo, care of Mr. Krook within. There 
were several second-hand bags, blue and red, hanging up. A little 
way within the shop-door, lay heaps of old crackled parchment 
scrolls, and discoloured and dog's-eared law-papers. I could have 
fancied that all the rusty keys, of which there must have been 
hundreds huddled together as old iron, had once belonged to doors 
of rooms or strong chests in lawyers' offices. The litter of rags 
tumbled partly into and partly out of a one-legged wooden scale, 
hanging without any counterpoise from a beam, might have been 
counsellors' bands and gowns torn up. One had only to fancy, as 
Richard whispered to Ada and me while we all stood looking in, 
that yonder bones in a corner, piled together and picked very 
clean, were the bones of clients, to make the picture complete. 

As it was still foggy and dark, and as the shop was blinded 
besides by the wall of Lincoln's Inn, intercepting the light within a 
couple of yards, we should not have seen so much but for a lighted 
lantern that an old man in spectacles and a hairy cap was canying 
about in the shop. Turning towards the door, he now caught 
sight of us. He was short, cadaverous, and withered ; with his 
head sunk sideways between his shoulders, and the breath issuing 
in visible smoke from his mouth, as if he were on fire within. His 
throat, chin, and eyebrows were so frosted with white hairs, and so 
gnarled with veins and puckered skin, that he looked, from his 
breast upward, like some old root in a fall of snow. 

" Hi hi ! " said the old man, coming to the door. " Have you 
anything to sell ? " 

We naturally drew back and glanced at our conductress, who 
had been trying to open the house-door with a key she had taken 
from her pocket, and to whom Richard now said, that, as we had 
had the pleasure of seeing where she lived, we would leave her, 
being pressed for time. But she was not to be so easily left. She 
became so fantastically and pressingly earnest in her entreaties 
that we would walk up, and see her apartment for an instant ; and 
was so bent, in her harmless way, on leading me in, as part of the 
good omen she desired ; that I (whatever the others might do) saw 
nothing for it but to comply. I suppose we were all more or less 
curious ; — at any rate, when the old man added his persuasions to 
hers, and said, " Aye, aye ! Please her ! It won't take a minute ! 



48 BLEAK HOUSE. 

Come in, come in ! Come in through the shop, if t'other door's 
out of order ! " we all went in, stimulated by Richard's laughing 
encouragement, and relying on his protection. 

" My landlord, Krook," said the little old lady, condescending to 
him from her lofty station, as she presented him to us. " He is 
called among the neighbours the Lord Chancellor. His shop is 
called the Court of Chancery. He is a very eccentric person. He 
is very odd. Oh, I assure you he is very odd ! " 

She shook her head a great many times, and tapped her forehead 
with her finger, to express to us that we must have the goodness to 
excuse him, " For he is a little — you know ! — M — ! " said the 
old lady, with great stateliness. The old man overheard, and 
laughed. 

"It's true enough," he said, going before us with the lantern, 
" that they call me the Lord Chancellor, and call my shop Chan- 
cery. And why do you think they call me the Lord Chancellor, 
and my shop Chancery 1 " 

" I don't know, I am sure ! " said Richard, rather carelessly. 

" You see," said the old man, stopping and turning round, 
" they — Hi ! Here's lovely hair ! I have got three sacks of 
ladies' hair below, but none so beautiful and fine as this. What 
colour, and what texture ! " 

" That'll do, my good friend ! " said Richard, strongly disap- 
proving of his having drawn one of Ada's tresses through his 
yellow hand. " You can admire as the rest of us do, without 
taking that liberty." 

The old man darted at him a sudden look, which even called my 
attention from Ada, who, startled and blushing, was so remarkably 
beautiful that she seemed to fix the wandering attention of the 
little old lady herself. But as Ada interposed, and laughingly 
said she could only feel proud of such genuine admiration, Mr. 
Krook shrunk into his former self as suddenly as he had leaped 
out of it. 

" You see I have so many things here," he resumed, holding up 
the lantern, "of so many kinds, and all, as the neighbours think 
(but thei/ know nothing), wasting away and going to rack and 
ruin, that that's why they have given me and my place a christen- 
ing. And I have so many old parchmentses and papers in my 
stock. And I have a liking for rust and must and cobwebs. And 
all's fish that comes to my net. And I can't abear to part with 
anything I once lay hold of (or so my neighbours think, but what 
do thei/ know 1) or to alter anything, or to have any sweeping, nor 
scouring, nor cleaning, nor repairing going on about me. That's 
the way I've got the ill name of Chancery. / don't mind. I go 



BLEAK HOUSE. 49 

to see my noble and learned brother pretty well every day, when 
he sits in the Inn. He don't notice me, but I notice him. There's 
no great odds betwixt us. We both grub on in a muddle. Hi, 
Lady Jane ! " 

A Lnrge grey cat leaped from some neighbouring shelf on his 
shoulder, and startled us all. 

" Hi ! show 'em how you scratch. Hi ! Tear, my lady ! " said 
her master. 

The cat leaped down, and ripped at a bundle of rags with her 
tigerish claws, with a sound that it set my teeth on edge to hear. 

"She'd do as much for any one I was to set her on," said the 
old man. " I deal in cat-skins among other general matters, and 
hers was oftered to me. It's a very fine skin, as you may see, but 
I didn't have it stripped off ! That warn't like Chancery practice 
though, says you ! " 

He had by this time led us across the shop, and now opened a 
door in the back part of it, leading to the house-entry. As he 
stood with his hand upon the lock, the little old lady graciously 
observed to him before passing out : 

" That will do, Krook. You mean well, but are tiresome. My 
young friends are pressed for time. I' have none to spare myself, 
having to attend court very soon. My young friends are the wards 
in Jarndyce." 

" Jarndyce ! " said the old man with a start. 

"Jarndyce and Jarndyce. The great suit, Krook," returned his 
lodger. 

" Hi ! " exclaimed the old man, in a tone of thoughtful amaze- 
ment, and with a wider stare than before ; " Think of it ! " 

He seemed so rapt all in a moment, and looked so curiously at 
us, that Richard said : 

" Why, you appear to trouble yourself a good deal about the 
causes before your noble and learned brother, the other Chan- 
cellor ! " 

"Yes," said the old man, abstractedly. "Sure! Your name 
now will be " 

" Richard Carstone." 

"Carstone," he repeated, slowly checking off that name upon 
his forefinger ; and each of the others he went on to mention, upon 
a separate finger. " Yes. There was the name of Barbary, and 
the name of Clare, and the name of Dedlock, too, I think." 

"He knows as much of the cause as the real salaried Chan- 
cellor ! " said Richard, quite astonished, to Ada and me. 

" Ay ! " said the old man, coming slowly out of his abstraction. 
"Yes! Tom Jarndyce — you'll excuse me, being related; but he 



50 BLEAK HOUSE. 

was never known about court by any other name, and was as well 
known there, as — she is now ; " nodding slightly at his lodger ; 
" Tom Jarndyce was often in here. He got into a restless habit of 
strolling about when the cause was on, or expected, talking to the 
little shopkeepers, and telling 'em to keep out of Chancery, what- 
ever they did. ' For,' says he, ' it's being ground to bits in a slow 
mill ; it's being roasted at a slow fire ; it's being stung to death by 
single bees ; it's being drowned by drops ; it's going mad by grains.' 
He was as near making away with himself, just where the young 
lady stands, as near could be." 

We listened with horror. 

"He come in at the door," said the old man, slowly pointing an 
imaginary track along the shop, " on the day he did it — the whole 
neighbourhood had said for months before, that he would do it, of a 
certainty, sooner or later — he come in at the door that day, and 
walked along there, and sat himself on a bench that stood there, 
and asked me (you'll judge I was a mortal sight younger then) to 
fetch him a pint of wine. ' For,' says he, ' Krook, I am much 
depressed ; my cause is on again, and I think I'm nearer judgment 
than I ever was.' I hadn't a mind to leave him alone ; and I per- 
suaded him to go to the tavern over the way there, t'other side my 
lane (I mean Chancery Lane) ; and I followed and looked in at the 
window, and saw him, comfortable as I thought, in the arm-chair 
by the fire, and company with him. I hadn't hardly got back here, 
when I heard a shot go echoing and rattling right away into the 
inn. I ran out — neighbours ran out — twenty of us cried at once, 
' Tom Jarndyce ! ' " 

The old man stopped, looked hard at us, looked down into the 
lantern, blew the light out, and shut the lantern up. 

" We were right, I needn't tell the present hearers. Hi ! To 
be sure, how the neighbourhood poured into court that afternoon 
while the cause was on ! How my noble and learned brother, and 
all the rest of 'em, grubbed and muddled away as usual, and 
tried to look as if they hadn't heard a word of the last fact in the 
case ; or as if they had — dear me ! — nothing at all to do with 
it, if they had heard of it by any chance ! " 

Ada's colour had entirely left her, and Richard was scarcely less 
pale. Nor could I wonder, judging even from my emotions, and I 
was no party in the suit, that to hearts so untried and fresh, it was 
a shock to come into the inheritance of a protracted misery, attended 
in the minds of many people with such dreadful recollections. I 
had another uneasiness, in the application of the painful story to 
the poor half-witted creature who had brought us there ; but, to 
my surprise, she seemed perfectly unconscious of that, and only led 



BLEAK HOUSE. 51 

the wiiy up-stairs again ; informing us, with the toleration of a 
superior creature for the infirmities of a common mortal, that her 
landlord was " a little — M — , you know ! " 

She lived at the top of tlie house, in a pretty large room, from 
which she had a glimpse of the roof of Lincoln's Inn Hall. This 
seemed to have been her principal inducement, originally, for taking 
up her residence there. She could look at it, she said, in the night : 
especially in the moonshine. Her room was clean, but very, very 
bare. I noticed the scantiest necessaries in the way of furniture ; 
a few old prints from books, of Chancellors and barristers, wafered 
against the wall ; and some half-dozen reticules and work-bags, 
"containing documents," as she informed us. There were neither 
coals nor ashes in the grate, and I saw no articles of clothing any- 
where, nor any kind of food. Upon a shelf in an open cupboard 
were a plate or two, a cup or two, and so forth ; but all dry and 
empty. There was a more affecting meaning in her pinched appear- 
ance, I thought as I looked round, than I had understood before. 

" Extremely honoured, I am sure," said our poor hostess, with 
the greatest suavity, " by this visit from the wards in Jarndyce. 
And very much indebted for the omen. It is a retired situation. 
Considering. I am limited as to situation. In consequence of the 
necessity of attending on the Chancellor. I have lived here many 
years. I pass my days in court ; my evenings and my nights here. 
I find the nights long, for I sleep but little, and think much. 
That is, of course, unavoidable ; being in Chancery. I am sorry I 
cannot off'er chocolate. I expect a judgment shortly, and shall 
then place my establishment on a superior footing. At present, I 
don't mind confessing to the wards in Jarndyce (in strict confidence), 
that I sometimes find it difficult to keep up a genteel appearance. 
I have felt the cold here. I have felt sometliing sharper than cold. 
It matters very little. Pray excuse the introduction of such mean 
topics." 

She partly drew aside the curtain of the long low garret-window, 
and called our attention to a number of bird-cages hanging there : 
some, containing several birds. There were larks, linnets, and 
goldfinclies — I should think at least twenty. 

" I began to keep the little creatures," she said, " with an object 
that the wards will readily comprehend. With the intention of 
restoring them to liberty. Wlien my judgment should be given. 
Ye-es ! They die in prison, though. Their lives, poor silly things, 
are so short in comparison with Chancery proceedings, that, one 
by one, the whole collection has died over and over again. I doubt, 
do you know, whether one of these, though they are all young, will 
live to be free ! Ve-ry mortifying, is it not ? " 



52 BLEAK HOUSE. 

Although she sometimes asked a question, she never seemed to 
expect a reply ; but rambled on as if she were in the habit of doing 
so, when no one but herself was present. 

"Indeed," she pursued, "I positively doubt sometimes, I do 
assure you, whether while matters are still unsettled, and the 
sixth or Great Seal still prevails, / may not one day be found 
lying stark and senseless here, as I have found so many birds ! " 

Richard, answering what he saw in Ada's compassionate eyes, 
took the opportunity of laying some money, softly and unobserved, 
on the chimney-piece. We all drew nearer to the cages, feigning 
to examine the birds. 

"I can't allow them to sing much," said the little old lady, "for 
(you'll think this curious) I find my mind confused by the idea that 
they are singing, while I am following the arguments in court. 
And my mind requires to be so very clear, you know ! Another 
time, I'll tell you their names. Not at present. On a day of 
such good omen, they shall sing as much as they like. In honour 
of youth," a smile and curtsey; "hope," a smile and curtsey; 
"and beauty," a smile and curtsey. "There! We'll let in the 
full light." 

The birds began to stir and chirp. 

" I cannot admit the air freely," said the little old lady ; the 
room was close, and would have been the better for it; "because 
the cat you saw down-stairs — called Lady Jane — is greedy for 
their lives. She crouches on the parapet outside, for hours and 
hours. I have discovered," whispering mysteriously, " that her 
natural cruelty is sharpened by a jealous fear of their regaining 
their liberty. In consequence of the judgment I expect being 
shortly given. She is sly, and full of malice. I half believe, 
sometimes, that she is no cat, but the wolf of the old saying. It 
is so very difficult to keep her from the door." 

Some neighbouring bells, reminding the poor soul that it was half- 
past nine, did more for us in the way of bringing our visit to an end, 
than we could easily have done for ourselves. She hurriedly took 
up her little bag of documents, which she had laid upon the table 
on coming in, and asked if we were also going into court 1 On 
our answering no, and that we would on no account detain her, she 
opened the door to attend us down-stairs. 

"With such an omen, it is even more necessary than usual that 
I should be there before the Chancellor comes in," said she, "for he 
might mention my case the first thing. I have a presentiment 
that he tvill mention it the first thing this morning." 

She stopped to tell us, in a whisper, as we were going down, 
that the whole house was filled with strange lumber which her 



BLEAK HOUSE. 53 

landlord had bought piecemeal, and had no wish to sell — in conse- 
quence of being a little — M — . This was on the first floor. But 
she had made a previous stoppage on the second floor, and had 
silently pointed at a dark door there. 

" The only other lodger," she now whispered, in explanation ; 
"a law-Avriter. The children in the lanes here, say he has sold 
himself to the devil. I don't know what he can have done with 
the money. Hush ! " 

She appeared to mistrust that the lodger might hear her, even 
there ; and repeating " Hush ! " went before us on tiptoe, as though 
even the sound of her footsteps might reveal to him what she had 
said. 

Passing through the shop on our way out, as we had passed 
through it on our way in, we found the old man storing a quantity 
of packets of waste paper, in a kind of well in the floor. He 
seemed to be working hard, with the perspiration standing on his 
forehead, and had a piece of chalk by him ; with which, as he put 
each separate package or bundle down, he made a crooked mark on 
the panelling of the wall. 

Richard and Ada, and Miss Jellyby, and the little old lady, had 
gone by him, and I was going, when he touched me on the arm to 
stay me, and chalked the letter J upon the wall — in a very curi- 
ous manner, beginning with the end of the letter, and shaping it 
backward. It was a capital letter, not a printed one, but just such 
a letter as any clerk in Messrs. Kenge and Carboy's office would 
have made. 

" Can you read it? " he asked me with a keen glance. 

"Surely," said I. "It's very plain." 

" What is it 1 " he asked me. 

"J." 

With another glance at me, and a glance at the door, he rubbed 
it out, and turned an a in its place (not a capital letter this time), 
and said, " What's that 1 " 

I told him. He then rubbed that out, and turned the letter r, 
and asked me the same question. He went on quickly, until he 
had formed, in the same curious manner, beginning at the ends and 
bottoms of the letters, the word Jarndyce, without once leaving 
two letters on the wall together. 

" What does that spell 1 " he asked me. 

When I told- him, he laughed. In the same odd way, yet with 
the same rapidity, he then produced singly, and rubbed out singly, 
the letters forming the words Bleak House. These, in some 
astonishment, I also read ; and he laughed again. 

" Hi ! " said the old man, laying aside the chalk, " I have a turn 




THE LOKD CHANCELLOR COPIES FROM MEMORY. 



BLEAK HOUSE. 55 

for copying from memory, you see, miss, though I can neither read 
nor write." 

He looked so disagreeable, and his cat looked so wickedly at me, 
as if I were a blood-relation of the birds up-stairs, that I was quite 
relieved by Richard's appearing at the door and saying : 

" Miss Summerson, I hojie you are not bargaining for the sale of 
your hair. Don't be tempted. Three sacks below are quite enough 
for Mr. Krook ! " 

I lost no time in wishing Mr. Krook good morning, and joining 
my friends outside, where we parted with the little old lady, who 
gave us her blessing with great ceremony, and renewed her assur- 
ance of yesterday in reference to her intention of settling estates on 
Ada and me. Before we finally turned out of those lanes, we looked 
back, and saw Mr. Krook standing at his shop-door, in his specta- 
cles, looking after us, with his cat upon his shoulder, and her tail 
sticking up on one side of his hairy cap, like a tall feather. 

"Quite an adventure for a morning in London ! " said Richard, 
with a sigh. " Ah, cousin, cousin, it's a weary word this Chan- 
cery ! " 

"It is to me, and has been ever since I can remember," returned 
Ada. " I am grieved that I should be the enemy — as I suppose 
I am — of a great number of relations and others ; and that they 
should be my enemies — as I suppose they are ; and that we 
should all be ruining one another, without knowing how or why, 
and be in constant doubt and discord all our lives. It seems very 
strange, as there must be right somewhere, that an honest judge in 
real earnest has not been able to find out through all these years 
where it is." 

" Ah, cousin ! " said Richard. " Strange, indeed ! all this waste- 
ful wanton chess-playing is very strange. To see that composed 
Court yesterday jogging on so serenely, and to think of the wretch- 
edness of the pieces on the board, gave me the headache and the 
heartache both together. My head ached with wondering how it 
happened, if men were neither fools nor rascals ; and my heart 
ached to think they could possibly be either. But at all events, 
Ada — I may call you Ada ? " 

"Of course you may, cousin Richard." 

" At all events, Ada, Chanceiy will work none of its bad influence 
on tin. We have happily been brought together, thanks to our 
good kinsman, and it can't divide us now ! " 

" Never, I hope, cousin Richard ! " said Ada, gently. 

Miss Jellyby gave my arm a squeeze, and me a very significant 
look. I smiled in return, and we made the rest of the way back 
very pleasantly. 



56 BLEAK HOUSE. 

In half an hour after our arrival, Mrs. Jellyby appeared ; and 
in the course of an hour the various things necessary for breakfast 
straggled one by one into the dining-room. I do not doubt that 
Mrs. Jellyby had gone to bed, and got up in the usual manner, but 
she presented no appearance of having changed her dress. She 
was greatly occupied during breakfast ; for the morning's post 
brought a heavy correspondence relative to Borrioboola-Gha, which 
would occasion her (she said) to pass a busy day. The children 
tumbled about, and notched memoranda of their accidents in their 
legs, which were perfect little calendars of distress ; and Peepy 
was lost for an hour and a half, and brought home from Newgate 
market by a policeman. The equable manner in which Mrs. Jellyby 
sustained both his absence, and his restoration to the family circle, 
surprised us all. 

She was by that time perseveringly dictating to Caddy, and 
Caddy was fast relapsing into the inky condition in which we 
had found her. At one o'clock an open carriage arrived for us, 
and a cart for our luggage. Mrs. Jellyby charged us with many 
remembrances to her good friend, Mr. Jarndyce ; Caddy left her 
desk to see us depart, kissed me in the passage, and stood, biting 
her pen, and sobbing on the steps ; Peepy, I am happy to say, was 
asleep, and spared the pain of separation (I was not without mis- 
givings that he had gone to Newgate market in search of me) ; 
and all the other children got up behind the barouche and fell off, 
and we saw them, with great concern, scattered over the surface of 
Thavies Inn, as we rolled out of its precincts. 



CHAPTER VI. 

QUITE AT HOME. 

The day had brightened very much, and still brightened as we 
went westward. We went our way through the sunshine and 
the fresh air, wondering more and more at the extent of the streets, 
the brilliancy of the shops, the great traffic, and the crowds of 
people whom the pleasanter weather seemed to have brought out 
like many-coloured flowers. By-and-bye we began to leave the 
wonderful city, and to proceed through suburbs which, of them- 
selves, would have made a pretty large town, in my eyes ; and at 
last we got into a real country road again, with windmills, rick- 
yards, milestones, farmers' waggons, scents of old hay, swinging 
signs and horse troughs ; trees, fields, and hedgerows. It was 



BLEAK HOUSE. 57 

delightful to see the green landscape before us, and the immense 
metropolis behind ; and when a waggon with a train of beautiful 
horses, furnished with red trappings and clear-sounding bells, came 
by us with its music, I believe we could all three have sung to the 
bells, so cheerfid were the influences around, 

" The whole road has been reminding me of my namesake Whit- 
tington," said Richard, "and that waggon is the finishing touch. 
Halloa ! what's the matter 1 " 

We had stopped, and the waggon had stopped too. Its music 
changed as the horses came to a stand, and subsided to a gentle 
tinkling, except when a horse tossed his head, or shook himself, 
and sprinkled off a little shower of bell-ringing. 

"Our postilion is looking after the waggoner," said Richard; 
" and the waggoner is coming back after us. Good day, friend ! " 
The waggoner was at our coach-door. " Why, here's an extraor- 
dinary thing ! " added Richard, looking closely at the man. " He 
has got your name, Ada, in his hat ! " 

He had all our names in his hat. Tucked within the band, were 
three small notes ; one, addressed to Ada ; one, to Richard ; one, 
to me. These the waggoner delivered to each of us respectively, 
reading the name aloud first. In answer to Richard's inquiry from 
whom they came, he briefly answeretl, " Master, sir, if you please ; " 
and, putting on his hat again (which was like a soft bowl), cracked 
his whip, re-awakened his music, and went melodiously away. 

" Is that Mr. Jarndyce's waggon 1 " said Richard, calling to our 
post-boy. 

"Yes, sir," he replied. "Going to London." 

We opened the notes. Each was a counterpart of the other, 
and contained these words, in a solid, plain hand. 

" I look forward, my dear, to our meeting easily, and without 
constraint on either side. I therefore have to propose that we 
meet as old friends, and take the past for granted. It will be a 
relief to you possibly, and to me certainly, and so my love to you. 

"John Jarndyce." 

I had perhaps less reason to be siu-prised tlian either of my 
companions, having never yet enjoyed an opportunity of thanking 
one who had been my benefactor and sole earthly dependence 
through so many years. I had not considered how I could thank 
him, my gi'atitude lying too deep in my heart for that; but I now 
began to consider how I could meet him without thanking him, 
and felt it would be veiy difficult indeed. 

The notes revived, in Richard and Ada, a general impression 



58 BLEAK HOUSE. 

that they both had, without quite knowing how they came by it, 
that their cousin Jarndyce could never bear acknowledgments for 
any kindness he performed, and that, sooner than receive any, he 
would resort to the most singular expedients and evasions, or would 
even run away. Ada dimly remembered to have heard her mother 
tell, when she was a very little child, that he had once done her an 
act of uncommon generosity, and that on her going to his house to 
thank him, he happened to see her through a window coming to 
the door, and immediately escaped by the back gate, and was not 
heard of for three months. This discourse led to a great deal more 
on the same theme, and indeed it lasted us all day, and we talked 
of scarcely anything else. If we did, by any chance, diverge into 
another subject, we soon returned to this ; and wondered what the 
house would be like, and when we should get there, and whether 
we should see Mr. Jarndyce as soon as we arrived, or after a delay, 
and what he would say to us, and what we should say to him. 
All of which we wondered about, over and over again. 

The roads were very heavy for the horses, but the pathway was 
generally good ; so we alighted and walked up all the hills, and 
liked it so well that we prolonged our walk on the level ground 
when we got to the top. At Barnet there were other horses wait- 
ing for us ; but as they had only just been fed, we had to wait 
for them too, and got a long fresh walk, over a common and 
an old battle-field, before the carriage came up. These delays so 
protracted the journey, that the short day was spent, and the long 
night had closed in, before we came to St. Albans ; near to which 
town Bleak House was, we knew. 

By that time we were so anxious and nervous, that even Richard 
confessed, as we rattled over the stones of the old street, to feeling 
an irrational desire to drive back again. As to Ada and me, whom 
he had wrapped up with great care, the night being sharp and 
frosty, we trembled from head to foot. When we turned out of 
the town, round a corner, and Richard told us that the post-boy, 
who had for a long time sympathised with our heightened expecta- 
tion, was looking back and nodding, we both stood up in the car- 
riage (Richard holding Ada, lest she should be jolted down), and 
gazed round upon the open country and the starlight night, for our 
destination. There was a light sparkling on the top of a hill before 
us, and the driver, pointing to it with his whip, and crying, "That's 
Bleak House ! " put his horses into a canter, and took us forward 
at such a rate, up-hill though it was, that the wheels sent the road- 
drift flying about our heads like spray from a water-mill. Pres- 
ently we lost the light, presently saw it, presently lost it, presently 
saw it, and turned into an avenue of trees, and cantered up towards 



BLEAK HOUSE. 69 

where it was beaming brightly. It was in a window of what 
seemed to be an old-fashioned house, with three peaks in the roof 
in front, and a circular sweep leading to the porch. A bell was 
rung as we drew up, and amidst the sound of its deep voice in the 
still air, and the distant barking of some dogs, and a gush of light 
from the opened door, and tlie smoking and steaming of the 
heated horses, and the quickened beating of our own hearts, we 
alighted in no inconsiderable confusion. 

" Ada, my love, Esther, my dear, you are welcome. I rejoice to 
see you ! Rick, if I had a hand to spare at present, I would give 
it you ! " 

The gentleman who said these words in a clear, bright, hosiDitable 
voice, had one of his anns round Ada's waist, and the other round 
mine, and kissed us both in a fatherly way, and bore us across the 
hall into a niddy little room, all in a glow with a blazing fire. 
Here he kissed us again, and, opening his arms, made us sit down 
side by side, on a sofa ready drawn out near the hearth. I felt 
that if we had been at all demonstrative, he would have run away 
in a moment. 

" Now, Rick ! " said he, " I have a hand at liberty. A word in 
earnest is as good as a speech. I am heartily glad to see you. You 
are at home. Warm yourself! " 

Richard shook him by both hands with an intuitive mixture of 
respect and frankness, and only saying (though -wdth an earnest- 
ness that rather alarmed me, I was so afraid of Mr. Jarndyce's 
suddenly disappearing), " You are very kind, sir ! We are very 
much obliged to you ! " laid aside his hat and coat, and came up 
to the fire. 

" And how did yon like the ride ? And how did you like Mrs. 
Jellyby, my dear ? " said Mr. Jarndyce to Ada,. 

While Ada was speaking to him in reply, I glanced (I need not 
say with how much interest) at his face. It was a handsome, 
lively, quick face, full of change and motion ; and his hair was a 
silvered iron-grey. I took him to be nearer sixty than fifty, but 
he was upright, hearty, and robust. From the moment of his 
first speaking to us, his voice had connected itself A\dth an associa- 
tion in my mind that I could not define ; but now, all at once, a 
something sudden in his manner, and a pleasant expression in his 
eyes, recalled the gentleman in the stage-coach, six years ago, on 
the memorable day of my journey to Reading. I was certain it 
was he. I never was so frightened in my life as when I made the 
discovery, for he caught my glance, and appearing to read my 
thoughts, gave such a look at the door that I thought we had lost 
him. 



60 BLEAK HOUSE. 

However, I am happy to say he remained where he was, and 
asked me what / thought of Mrs. Jelly by 1 

"She exerts herself very much for Africa, sir," I said. 

" Nobly ! " returned Mr. Jarndyce. " But you answer like Ada." 
Whom I had not heard. "You all think something else, I see." 

"We rather thought," said I, glancing at Richard and Ada, who 
entreated me with their eyes to speak, " that perhaps she was a 
little unmindful of her home." 

" Floored ! " cried Mr. Jarndyce. 

I was rather alarmed again. 

" Well ! I want to know your real thoughts, my dear. I may 
have sent you there on purpose." 

" We thought that, perhaps," said I, hesitating, "it is right to 
begin with the obligations of home, sir ; and that, perhaps, while 
those are overlooked and neglected, no other duties can possibly be 
substituted for them." 

"The little Jellybys," said Richard, coming to my relief, "are 
really — I can't help expressing myself strongly, sir — in a devil of 
a state." 

" She means well," said Mr. Jarndyce, hastily. " The wind's 
in the east." 

"It was in the north, sir, as we came down," observed Richard. 

" My dear Rick," said Mr. Jarndyce, poking the fire ; " I'll take 
an oath it's either in the east, or going to be. I am always con- 
scious of an uncomfortable sensation now and then when the wind 
is blowing in the east." 

" Rheumatism, sir ? " said Richard. 

" I dare say it is. Rick. I believe it is. And so the little Jell — 
I had my doubts about 'em — are in a — oh. Lord, yes, it's east- 
erly ! " said Mr. Jarndyce. 

He had taken two or three undecided turns up and down while 
uttering these broken sentences, retaining the poker in one hand 
and rubbing his hair with the other, with a good-natured vexation, 
at once so whimsical and so lovable, that I am sure we were more 
delighted with him than we could possibly have expressed in any 
words. He gave an arm to Ada and an arm to me, and bidding 
Richard bring a candle, was leading the way out, when he suddenly 
turned us all back again. 

" Those little Jellybys. Couldn't you — didn't you — now, if it 
had rained sugar-plums, or three-cornered raspberry tarts, or any- 
thing of that sort ! " said Mr. Jarndyce. 

" 0, cousin ^ ! " Ada hastily began. 

" Good, my pretty pet. I like cousin. Cousin John, perhaps, 
is better." 



BLEAK HOUSE. 61 

" Then, cousin John ! " Ada hiughingly began again. 

" Ha, ha ! Veiy good indeed ! " said Mr. Jarndyce, with great 
enjoyment. "Sounds uncommonly natural. Yes, my dear?" 

"It did better than that. It rained Esther." 

" Ay ? " said Mr. Jarndyce. " What did Esther do ? " 

" Why, cousin John," said Ada, clasping her hands upon his 
arm, and shaking her head at me across him — for I wanted her to 
be quiet : " Esther was their friend directly. Esther nursed them, 
coaxed them to sleep, washed and dressed them, told them stories, 
kept them quiet, bought them keepsakes " — My dear girl ! I had 
only gone out with Peepy, after he was found, and given him a 
little, tiny horse ! — " and, cousin John, she softened poor Caroline, 
the eldest one, so much, and was so thoughtful for me and so 
amiable ! — No, no, I won't be contradicted, Esther dear ! You 
know, you know, it's true ! " 

The warm-hearted darling leaned across her cousin John, and 
kissed me; and then, looking up in his face, boldly said, "At all 
events, cousin John, I ivill thank you for the companion you have 
given me." I felt as if she challenged him to nm away. But he 
didn't. 

" Where did you say the wind was. Rick 1 " asked Mr. Jarndyce. 

" In the north, as we came down, sir." 

" You are right. There's no east in it. A mistake of mine. 
Come, girls, come and see your home ! " 

^ It was one of those delightfully irregular houses where you go 
up and down steps out of one room into another, and where you 
come upon more rooms when you think you have seen all there 
are, and where there is a bountiful provision of little halls and 
passages, and where you find still older cottage-rooms in unex- 
pected places, with lattice windows and green growth pressing 
through them. Mine, which we entered first, was of this kind, 
with an up-and-down roof, that had more corners in it than I ever 
counted afterwards, and a chimney (there was a wood-fire on the 
hearth) paved all round with pure white tiles, in every one of 
which a bright miniature of the fire was blazing. Out of this 
room, you went down two steps, into a charming little sitting- 
room, looking down upon a flower-garden, which room was hence- 
forth to belong to Ada and me. Out of this you went up three 
steps, into Ada's bed-room, which had a fine broad window, com- 
manding a beautiful view (we saw a great expanse of darkness 
lying underneath the stars), to which there was a hollow window- 
seat, in which, with a spring-lock, three dear Adas might have 
been lost at once. Out of this room, you passed into a little 
gallery, with which the other best rooms (only two) communicated, 



IT* 



62 BLEAK HOUSE. 

and so, by a little staircase of shallow steps, with a number of 
corner stairs in it, considei'ing its length, down into the hall. But 
if, instead of going out at Ada's door, you came back into my 
room, and went out at the door by which you had entered it, and 
turned up a few crooked steps that branched off in an unexpected 
manner from the stairs, you lost yourself in passages, with mangles 
in them, and three-cornered tables, and a Native-Hindoo chair, 
which was also a sofa, a box, and a bedstead, and looked, in every 
form, something between a bamboo skeleton and a great bird-cage, 
and had been brought from India nobody knew by whom or when. 
From these, you came on Richard's room, which was part library, 
part sitting-room, part bed-room, and seemed indeed a comfortable 
compound of many rooms. Out of that, you went straight, with 
a little interval of passage, to the plain room where Mr. Jarndyci 
slept, all the year round, with his window open, his bedstead wit! 
out any furniture standing in the middle of the floor for more air^ 
and his cold-bath gaping for him in a smaller room adjoining. 
Out of that, you came into another passage, where there were 
back-stairs, and where you could hear the horses being rubbed 
down, outside the stable, and being told to Hold up, and Get over, 
as they slipped about very much on the uneven stones. Or you 
might, if you came out at another door (every room had at least 
two doors), go straight down to the hall again by half-a-dozen steps 
and a low archway, wondering how you got back there, or had ever 
got out of it. 

The furniture, old-fashioned rather than old, like the house, was 
as pleasantly irregular. Ada's sleeping-room was all flowers — in 
chintz and paper, in velvet, in needlework, in the brocade of two 
stiff courtly chairs, which stood, each attended by a little page 
a stool for greater state, on either side of the fire-place. Our s 
ting-room was green ; and had, framed and glazed, upon the wal 
numbers of surprising and surprised birds, staring out of pictui 
at a real trout in a case, as brown and shining as if it had been 
served with gravy ; at the death of Captain Cook ; and at t 
whole process of preparing tea in China, as depicted by Chine . 
artists. In my room there were oval engravings of the months — J 
ladies haymaking, in short waists, and large hats tied under tha 
chin, for June — smooth-legged noblemen, pointing, with cocked/ 
hats, to village steeples, for October. Half-length portraits, ii 
crayons, abounded all through the house ; but were so dispersed thai! 
I found the brother of a youthful ofticer of mine in the china-closet,\ 
and the grey old age of my pretty young bride, with a flower in 
her bodice, in the breakfast-room. As substitutes, I had four 
angels, of Queen Anne's reign, taking a complacent gentleman to j 



BLEAK HOUSE. 63 

heaven, in festoons, with some difficulty ; and a composition in 
needlework, rejjresenting fruit, a kettle, and an alphabet. All the 
movables, from the wardrobes to the chairs and tables, hangings, 
glasses, even to the pincushions and scent-bottles on the dressing- 
tables, displayed the same quaint variety. They agreed in nothing 
but their perfect neatness, their display of the whitest linen, and 
their storing-up, wheresoever the existence of a drawer, small or 
large, rendered it possible, of quantities of rose-leaves and sweet 
lavender. Such, with its illuminated windows, softened here and 
there by shadows of curtains, shining out upon the star-light night ; 
with its light, and warmth, and comfort ; with its hospitable 
jingle, at a distance, of preparations for dinner ; with the face of 
its generoi;s master brightening everything we saw; and just wind 
enough without to sound a low accompaniment to everything we 
heard ; were our first impressions of Bleak House. 

" I am glad you like it," said Mr. Jarndyce, when he had 
brought us round again to Ada's sitting-room. " It makes no 
pretensions ; but it is a comfortable little place, I hope, and will be 
more so with such bright young looks in it. You have barely half 
an hour before dinner. There's no one here but the finest creature 
upon earth — a child." 

" More children, Esther ! " said Ada. 

"I don't mean literally a child," pursued Mr. Jarndyce; "not 
a child in years. He is grown up — he is at least as old as I am 
— but in simplicity, and freshness, and enthusiasm, and a fine 
guileless inaptitude for all worldly affairs, he is a perfect child." 

We felt that he must be very interesting. 

"He knows Mrs. Jelly by," said Mr. Jarndyce. "He is a 
musical man ; an Amateur, but might have been a Professional. 
He is an Artist, too ; an Amateur, but might have been a Profes- 
sional. He is a man of attainments and of captivating manners. 
He has been unfortunate in his affairs, and unfortunate in his pur- 
fiuits, and unfortunate in his family ; but he don't care — he's a 
child ! " 

■' " Did you imply that he has children of his own, sir 1 " inquired 
Richard. 

" Yes, Rick ! Half-a-dozen. More ! Nearer a dozen, I should 
think. But he has never looked after them. How could he? 
He wanted somebody to look after him. He is a child, you 
know ! " said Mr. Jarndyce. 

"And have the children looked after themselves at all, sir?" 
inquired Richard. 

" Why, just as you may suppose," said Mr. Jarndyce : his 
countenance suddenly falling. " It is said that the children of 



64 BLEAK HOUSE. 

the very poor are not brought up, but dragged up. Harold Skim- 
pole's children have tumbled up somehow or other. — The wind's 
getting round again, I am afraid. I feel it rather ! " 

Richard observed that the situation was exposed on a sharp 
night. 

" It is exposed," said Mr. Jarndyce. " No doubt that's the 
cause. Bleak House has an exposed sound. But you are coming 
my way. Come along ! " 

Our luggage having arrived, and being all at hand, I was dressed 
in a few minutes, and engaged in putting my worldly goods away, 
when a maid (not the one in attendance upon Ada, but another 
whom I had not seen) brought a basket into my room, with two 
bunches of keys in it, all labelled. 

" For you, miss, if you please," said she. 

" For me 1 " said I. 

" The housekeeping keys, miss." 

I showed my surprise ; for she added, with some little surprise 
on her own part : "I was told to bring them as soon as you was 
alone, miss. Miss Summerson, if I don't deceive myself 1 " 

"Yes," said I. " That is my name." 

" The large bunch is the housekeeping, and the little bunch is 
the cellars, miss. Any time you was pleased to appoint to-mor- 
row morning, I was to show you the presses and things they 
belong to." 

I said I would be ready at half-past six ; and, after she was 
gone, stood looking at the basket, quite lost in the magnitude of 
ray trust. Ada found me thus ; and had such a delightful confi- 
dence in me when I showed her the keys, and told her about them, 
that it would have been insensibility and ingratitude not to feel 
encouraged. I knew, to be sure, that it was the dear girl's kind- 
ness ; but I liked to be so pleasantly cheated. 

When we went down-stairs, we were presented to Mr. Skimpole, 
who was standing before the fire, telling Richard how fond he used 
to be, in his school-time, of football. He was a little bright 
creature, with a rather large head ; but a delicate face, and a sweet 
voice, and there was a perfect charm in him. All he said was so 
free from effort and spontaneous, and was said with such a capti- 
vating gaiety, that it was fascinating to hear him talk. Being of 
a more slender figure than Mr. Jarndyce, and having a richer com- 
jDlexion, with browner hair, he looked younger. Indeed, he had 
more the appearance, in all respects, of a damaged young man, 
than a well-preserved elderly one. There was an easy negligence 
in his manner, and even in his dress (his hair carelessly disposed, 
and his neck-kerchief loose and flo\ving, as I have seen artists paint 



BLEAK HOUSE. 65 

their own portraits), which I could not separate from the idea of a 
romantic youth who had undergone some vmique i^rocess of depre- 
ciation. It struck me as being not at all like the manner or 
appearance of a man who had advanced in life, by the usual road 
of years, cares, and experiences. 

I gathered from the conversation, that Mr. Skimpole had been 
educated for the medical profession, and had once lived, in his pro- 
fessional capacity, in the household of a German prince. He told 
us, however, that as he had always been a mere child in point of 
weights and measures, and had never known anything about them 
(except that they disgusted him), he had never been able to pre- 
scribe with the requisite accuracy of detail. In fact, he said, he 
had no head for detail. And he told us, with great humour, that 
when he was wanted to bleed the prince, or physic any of his 
people, he was generally found lying on his back, in bed, reading 
the newspapers, or making fancy-sketches in pencil, and couldn't 
come. The prince, at last objecting to this, "in which," said Mr. 
Skimpole, in the frankest manner, " he was perfectly right," the en- 
gagement terminated ; and Mr. Skimpole having (as he added with 
delightful gaiety) " nothing to live upon but love, fell in love, and 
married, and surrounded himself with rosy cheeks." His good friend 
Janidyce and some other of his good friends then helped him, in 
quicker or slower succession, to several openings in life ; but to no 
purpose, for he must confess to two of the oddest infirmities in the 
world : one was, that he had no idea of time ; the other, that he 
had no idea of money. In consequence of which, he never kept an 
appointment, never could transact any business, and never knew 
the value of anything ! Well ! So he had got on in life, and here 
he was ! He was veiy fond of reading the papers, very fond of 
making faucy-sketches with a pencil, very fond of nature, very fond 
of art. All he asked of society was, to let him live. That wasn't 
much. His wants were few. Give him the papers, conversation, 
music, mutton, coffee, landscape, fruit in the season, a few sheets 
of Bristol-board, and a little claret, and he asked no more. He 
was a mere child in the world, but he didn't cry for the moon. 
He said to the world, " Go your several ways in peace ! Wear red 
coats, blue coats, lawn-sleeves, put pens behind your ears, wear 
aprons ; go after glory, holiness, commerce, trade, any object you 
prefer ; only — let Harold Skimpole live ! " 

All this, and a great deal more, he told us, not only with the 
utmost brilliancy and enjoyment, but with a certain vivacious can- 
dour — speaking of himself as if he were not at all his own affair, 
as if Skimpole were a third person, as if he knew that Skimpole 
had his singularities, but still had his claims too, which were the 



66 BLEAK HOUSE. 

general business of the community and must not be slighted. He 
was quite enchanting. If I felt at all confused at that early time, 
in endeavouring to reconcile anything he said with anything I had 
thought about the duties and accountabilities of life (which I am 
far from sure of), I was confused by not exactly understanding why 
he was free of them. That he was free of them, I scarcely 
doubted; he was so very clear about it himself. 

" I covet nothing," said Mr. Skimpole, in the same light way. 
" Possession is nothing to me. Here is my friend Jarndyce's excel- 
lent house. I feel obliged to him for possessing it. I can sketch 
it, and alter it. I can set it to music. When I am here, I have 
sufficient possession of it, and have neither trouble, cost, nor respon- 
sibility. My steward's name, in short, is Jarndyce, and he can't 
cheat me. We have been mentioning Mrs. Jellyby. There is a 
bright-eyed woman, of a strong will and immense power of busi- 
ness-detail, who throws herself into objects with surprising ardour ! 
I don't regret that / have not a strong will and an immense power 
of business-detail, to throw myself into objects with surprising 
ardour. I can admire her without envy. I can sympathise witli 
the objects. I can dream of them. I can lie down on the grass 
— in fine weather — and float along an African river, embracing 
all the natives I meet, as sensible of the deep silence, and sketch- 
ing the dense overhanging tropical growth as accurately, as if I 
were there. I don't know that it's of any direct use my doing so, 
but it's all I can do, and I do it thoroughly. Then, for Heaven's 
sake, having Harold Skimpole, a confiding child, petitioning you, 
the world, an agglomeration of j^ractical people of business habits, 
to let him live and admire the human family, do it somehow or 
other, like good souls, and suffer him to ride his rocking-horse ! " 

It was plain enough that Mr. Jarndyce had not been neglectful 
of the adjuration. 

Mr. Skimpole's general position there would have rendered it so, 
without the addition of what he presently said. 

" It's only you, the generous creatures, whom I envy," said Mr. 
Skimpole, addressing us, his new friends, in an impersonal manner. 
" I envy you your power of doing what you do. It is what I 
should revel in, myself. I don't feel any vulgar gratitude to you. 
I almost feel as if you ought to be grateful to me, for giving 
you the opportunity of enjoying the luxury of generosity. I know 
you like it. For anything I can tell, I may have come into the 
world expressly for the purpose of increasing your stock of happi- 
ness. I may have been born to be a benefactor to you, by sometimes 
giving you an opportunity of assisting me in my little perplexities. 
Why should I regret my incapacity for details and worldly affairs, 



BLEAK HOUSE. 67 

when it leads to such pleasant consequences 1 I don't )-egret it 
therefore." 

Of all his playful speeches (playful, yet always fully meaning 
what they expressed) none seemed to be more to the taste of Mr. 
Jamdyce than this. I had often new temptations, afterwards, to 
wonder whether it was really singular, or only singular to me, that 
he, who was probably the most grateful of mankind upon the least 
occasion, should so desire to escape the gratitude of others. 

We were all enchanted. I felt it a merited tribute to the en- 
gaging qualities of Ada and Richard, that Mr. Skimpole, seeing 
them for the first time, should be so unreserved, and should lay 
himself out to be so exquisitely agreeable. They (and especially 
Richard) were naturally pleased for similar reasons, and considered 
it no common privilege to be so freely confided in by such an 
attractive man. The more we listened, the more gaily Mr. Skimpole 
talked. And what with his fine hilarious manner, and his engaging 
candour, and his genial way of lightly tossing his own weaknesses 
about, as if he had said, " I am a child, you know ! You are de- 
signing people compared with me ; " (he really made me consider 
myself in that light;) "but I am gay and innocent; forget your 
worldly arts and play with me ! " — the effect was absolutely dazzling. 

He was so full of feeling too, and had such a delicate sentiment 
for what was beautiful or tender, that he could have won a heart 
by that alone. In the evening when I was preparing to make tea, 
and Ada was touching the piano in the adjoining room and softly 
humming a tune to her cousin Richard, which they had happened 
to mention, he came and sat down on the sofa near me, and so 
spoke of Ada that I almost loved him. 

" She is like the morning," he said. " With that golden hair, 
those blue eyes, and that fresh bloom on her cheek, she is like the 
summer morning. The birds here will mistake her for it. We 
will not call such a lovely young creature as that, who is a joy to 
all mankind, an orphan. She is the child of the universe." 

Mr. Jamdyce, I found, was standing near us, with his hands 
behind him, and an attentive smile upon his face. 

"The universe," he observed, "makes rather an indifferent par- 
ent, I am afraid." 

"0 ! I don't know ! " cried Mr. Skimpole, buoyantly. 

" I think I do know," said Mr. Jarndyce. 

" Well ! " cried Mr. Skimpole, " you know the world (which in 
your sense is the universe), and I know nothing of it, so you sliall 
have your way. But if I had mine," glancing at the cousins, 
" there should be no brambles of sordid realities in such a path as 
that. It should be strewn with roses ; it should lie through bowers, 



68 BLEAK HOUSE. 

where there was no spring, autumn, nor winter, but perpetual 
summer. Age or change should never wither it. .The base word 
money should never be breathed near it ! " 

Mr. Jarndyce patted him on the head with a smile, as if he had 
been really a child ; and passing a step or two on, and stopping a 
moment, glanced at the young cousins. His look was thoughtful, 
but had a benignant expression in it which I often (how often !) 
saw again : which has long been engraven on my heart. The room 
in which they were, communicating with that in which he stood, 
was only lighted by the fire. Ada sat at the piano ; Richard stood 
beside her, bending down. Upon the wall, their shadows blended 
together, surrounded by strange forms, not without a ghostly motion 
caught from the unsteady fire, though reflected from motionless 
objects. Ada touched the notes so softly, and sang so low, that 
the wind, sighing away to the distant hills, was as audible as the 
music. The mystery of the future, and the little clue afforded 
to it by the voice of the present, seemed expressed in the whole 
picture. 

But it is not to recall this fancy, well as I remember it, that I 
recall the scene. First, I was not quite unconscious of the con- 
trast, in respect of meaning and intention, between the silent look 
directed that way, and the flow of words that had preceded it. 
Secondly, though Mr. Jarndyce's glance, as he withdrew it, rested 
for but a moment on me, I felt as if, in that moment he confided 
to me — and knew that he confided to me, and that I received the 
confidence — liis hope that Ada and Richard might one day enter 
on a dearer relationship. 

Mr. Skimpole could play on the \)isiwo, and the violoncello ; and 
he was a composer — had composed half an opera once, but got 
tired of it — and played what he composed, with taste. After tea 
we had quite a little concert, in which Richard — who was en- 
thralled by Ada's singing, and told me that she seemed to know all 
the songs that ever were written — and Mr. Jarndyce, and I, were 
the audience. After a little while I missed, first Mr. Skimpole, 
and afterwards Richard ; and while I was thinking how could 
Richard stay away so long, and lose so much, the maid who had 
given me the keys looked in at the door, saying, " If you please, 
miss, could you spare a minute ? " 

When I was shut out with her in the hall, she said, holding up 
her hands, " Oh if you please, miss, Mr. Carstone says would you 
come up-stairs to Mr. Skimpole's room. He has been took, miss ! " 

"Took?" said I. 

" Took, miss. Sudden," said the maid. 

I was apprehensive that his illness might be of a dangerous 



BLEAK HOUSE. 69 

kind ; but of course, I begged her to be quiet and not disturb any 
one ; and collected myself, as I followed her quickly up-stairs, 
sufficiently to consider what were the best remedies to be applied 
if it should prove to be a fit. She threw open a door, and I went 
into a chamber; where, to my unspeakable surprise, instead of 
finding Mr. Skimpole stretched upon the bed, or prostrate on the 
floor, I found him standing before the fire smiling at Richard, while 
Richard, with a face of great embarrassment, looked at a person on 
the sofa, in a white great-coat, with smooth hair upon his head and 
not much of it, Avhicli he w^as wiping smoother, and making less of, 
with a pocket-handkerchief. 

" Miss Summerson," said Richard, hurriedly, " I am glad you are 
come. You will be able to advise us. Our friend, Mr. Skimpole 
— don't be alarmed ! — is arrested for debt." 

" And, really, my dear Miss Summerson," said Mr. Skimpole, 
with his agreeable candour, " I never was in a situation, in which 
that excellent sense, and quiet habit of method and usefulness, 
which anybody must observe in you who has the happiness of being 
a quarter of an hour in your society, was more needed." 

The person on the sofa, who appeared to have a cold in his head, 
gave such a very loud snort, that he startled me. 

"Are you arrested for much, sir?" I inquired of Mr. Skim- 
pole. 

" My dear Miss Summerson," said he, shaking his head pleas- 
antly, " I don't know. Some pounds, odd shillings, and halfpence, 
I think, were mentioned." 

"It's twenty-four pound, sixteen, and sevenpence ha'penny," 
observed the stranger. " That's wot it is." 

" And it sounds — somehow it sounds," said Mr. Skimpole, " like 
a small sum ? " 

The strange man said nothing, but made another snort. It was 
such a powerful one, that it seemed quite to lift him out of his 
seat. 

"Mr. Skimpole," said Richard to me, "has a delicacy in apply- 
ing to my cousin Jarndyce, because he has lately — I think, sir, I 
understood you that you had lately " 

" Oh, yes ! " returned Mr. Skimpole, smiling. " Though I forgot 
how much it was, and when it was. Jarndyce would readily do it 
again ; but I have the epicure-like feeling that I would prefer a 
novelty in help; that I would rather," and he looked at Richard 
and me, " develop generosity in a new soil, and in a new form of 
flower." 

" What do you think will be best, Miss Summerson ? " said 
Richard, aside. 




COAVINSES. 



BLEAK HOUSE. 71 

I ventured to inquire, generally, before replying, what would 
happen if the money were not produced. 

" Jail," said the strange man, coolly putting his handkerchief 
into his hat, which was on the floor at his feet. " Or Coavinses." 

" May I ask, sir, what is " 

" Coavinses 1 " said the strange man. " A 'ouse." 

Richard and I looked at one another again. It was a most singu- 
lar thing that the arrest was our embarrassment, and not Mr. Skim- 
pole's. He observed us with a genial interest ; but there seemed, 
if I may venture on such a contradiction, nothing selfish in it. He 
had entirely washed his hands of the difficulty, and it had become 
ours. 

" I thought," he suggested, as if good-naturetUy to help us out, 
" that, being parties in a Chancery suit concerning (as people say) 
a large amount of property, Mr. Richard, or his beautiful cousin, 
or both, could sign something, or make over something, or give 
some sort of undertaking, or pledge, or bond ? I don't know what 
the business name of it may be, but I suppose there is some instru- 
ment within their power that would settle this ? " 

" Not a bit on it," said the strange man. 

"Really?" returned Mr. Skimpole. "That seems odd, now, 
to one who is no judge of these things ! " 

" Odd or even," said the stranger, gruffly, " I tell you, not a bit 
on it ! " 

" Keep your temper, my good fellow, keep your temper ! " Mr. 
Skimpole gently reasoned with him, as he made a little drawing 
of his head on the fly-leaf of a book. " Don't be ruffled by your 
occupation. We can separate you from your office ; we can sepa- 
rate the individual from the pursuit. We are not so prejudiced 
as to suppose that in private life you are otherwise than a very 
estimable man, with a great deal of poetry in your nature, of which 
you may not be conscious." 

The stranger only answered with another violent snort ; whether 
in acceptance of the poetry-tribute, or in disdainful rejection of it, 
he did not express to me. 

" Now, my dear Miss Summerson, and my dear Mr. Richard," 
said Mr. Skimpole, gaily, innocently, and confidingly, as he looked 
at his drawing with his head on one side ; " here you see me utterly 
incapable of helping myself, and entirely in your hands ! I only 
ask to be free. The butterflies are free. Mankind will surely not 
deny to Harold Skimpole what it concedes to the butterflies ! " 

"My dear Miss Summerson," said Richard, in a whisper, "I 
have ten pounds that I received from Mr. Kenge. I must try 
what that will do." 



72 BLEAK HOUSE. 

I possessed fifteen pounds, odd shillings, which I had saved 
from my quarterly allowance during several years. I had always 
thought that some accident might happen which would throw me, 
suddenly, without any relation, or any property, on the world ; and 
had always tried to keep some little money by me, that I might 
not be quite penniless. I told Richard of my having this little 
store, and having no present need of it ; and I asked him delicately 
to inform Mr. Skimpole, while I should be gone to fetch it, that 
we would have the pleasure of paying his debt. 

When I came back, Mr. Skimpole kissed my hand, and seemed 
quite touched. Not on his own account (I was again aware of that 
perplexing and extraordinary contradiction), but on ours; as if 
personal considerations were impossible with him, and the contem- 
plation of our happiness alone affected him. Richard, begging 
me, for the greater grace of the transaction, as he said, to settle 
with Coavinses (as Mr. Skimpole now jocularly called him), I 
counted out the money and received the necessary acknowledgment. 
This, too, delighted Mr. Skimpole. 

His compliments were so delicately administered, that I blushed 
less than I might have done ; and settled with the stranger in the 
white coat, without making any mistakes. He put the money in 
his pocket, and shortly said, "Well, then, I'll wish you a good 
evening, miss." 

"My friend," said Mr. Skimpole, standing with his back to the 
fire, after giving up the sketch when it was half finished, " I should 
like to ask you something, without offence." 

I think the reply was, " Cut away, then ! " 

" Did you know this morning, now, that you were coming out 
on this errand ? " said Mr. Skimpole. 

"Know'd it yes'day aft'noon at tea-time," said Coavinses. 

"It didn't affect your appetite? Didn't make you at all un^ 
easy ? " 

"Not a bit," said Coavinses. "I know'd if you wos missed 
to-day, you wouldn't be missed to-morrow. A day makes no such 
odds." 

" But when you came down here," proceeded Mr. Skimpole, "ii 
was a fine day. The sun was shining, the wind was blowing, th( 
lights and shadows were passing across the fields, the birds wen 
singing." 

"Nobody said they warn't, in my hearing," returned Coavinses; 

" No," observed Mr. Skimpole. " But what did you think upoi 
the road?" 

" Wot do you mean % " growled Coavinses, with an appearance 
of strong resentment. " Think ! I've got enough to do, and little 



I 



BLEAK HOUSE. 73 

enough to get for it, without thinking. Thinking ! " (with profound 
contempt). 

"Then you didn't think, at all events," proceeded Mr. Skimpole, 
" to this effect. ' Harold Skimpole loves to see the sun shine ; 
loves to hear the wind blow ; loves to watch the changing lights 
and shadows ; loves to hear the birds, those choristers in Nature's 
gi-eat cathedral. And does it seem to me that I am about to deprive 
Harold Skimpole of his share in such possessions, which are his 
only birthright; ! ' You thought nothing to that effect 1 " 

"I — certainly — did — not," said Coavinses, whose doggedness 
in utterly renouncing the idea was of that intense kind, that he 
could only give adequate expression to it by putting a long interval 
between each word, and accompanying the last with a jerk that 
might have dislocated his neck. 

" Very odd and very curious, the mental process is, in you men 
of business ! " said Mr. Skimpole, thoughtfully. " Thank you, my 
friend. Good night." 

As our absence had been long enough already to seem strange 
down- stairs, I returned at once, and found Ada sitting at work by 
the fireside talking to her cousin John. Mr. Skimpole presently 
appeared, and Richard shortly after him. I was sufficiently engaged, 
during the remainder of the evening, in taking my first lesson in 
backgammon from Mr. Jarndyce, who was very fond of the game, 
and from whom I wished of course to learn it as quickly as I could, 
in order that I might be of the very small use of being able to play 
when he had no better adversary. But I thought, occasionally 
when Mr. Skimpole played some fragments of his own compositions ; 
or when, both at the piano and the violoncello, and at our table, 
he preserved, with an absence of all effort, his delightful spirits 
and his easy flow of conversation ; that Richard and I seemed to 
retain the transferred impression of having been arrested since 
dinner, and that it was very curious altogether. 

It was late before we separated : for when Ada was going at 
eleven o'clock, Mr. Skimpole went to the piano, and rattled, hilari- 
ously, that the best of all ways, to lengthen our days, was to steal 
a few hours from Night, my dear ! It was past twelve before he 
took his candle and his radiant face out of the room ; and I think 
he might have kept us there, if he had seen fit, until daybreak. 
Ada and Richard were lingering for a few moments by the fire, 
wondering whether Mrs. Jellyby had yet finished her dictation 
for the day, when Mr. Jarndyce, who had been out of the room, 
returned. 

" Oh, dear me, what's this, what's this ! " he said, rubbing his 
head and walking about with his good-humoured vexation. " What's 



74 BLEAK HOUSE. 

this, they tell me ? Rick, my boy, Esther, my dear, what have yoii 
been doing ? Why did you do it ? How could you do it ? How 
much apiece was it ? — The wind's round again. I feel it all over 
me!" 

We neither of us quite knew what to answer. 

" Come, Rick, come ! I must settle this before I sleep. How 
much are you out of pocket ? You two made the money up, you 
know ! Why did you ? How could you 1 — Lord, yes, it's due 
east — must be ! " 

" Really, sir," said Richard, "I don't think it would be honour- 
able in me to tell you. Mr. Skimpole relied upon us — " 

" Lord bless you, my dear boy ! He relies upon everybody ! " 
said Mr. Jarndyce, giving his head a great rub, and stopping short. 

" Indeed, sir ? " 

" Everybody ! And he'll be in the same scrape again, next 
week ! " said Mr. Jarndyce, walking again at a great pace, with a 
candle in his hand that had gone out. " He's always in the same 
scrape. He was born in the same scrape. I verily believe that 
the announcement in the newspapers when his mother was confined, 
was ' On Tuesday last, at her residence in Botheration Buildings, 
Mrs. Skimpole of a son in difficulties.' " ■ 

Richard laughed heartily, but added, "Still, sir, I don't want ta 
shake his confidence, or to break his confidence ; and if I submit to 
your better knowledge again, that I ought to keep his secret, I 
hope you will consider before you press me any more. Of course, 
if you do press me, sir, I shall know I am wrong, and will tell you." 

" Well ! " cried Mr. Jarndyce, stopping again, and making several 
absent endeavours to put his candlestick in his pocket. "I — 
here ! Take it away, my dear. I don't know what I am about 
with it ; it's all the wind — invariably has that effect — I won't 
press you, Rick ; you may be right. But really — -to get hold of 
you and Esther — and to squeeze you like a couple of tender young 
Saint Michael's oranges ! — It'll blow a gale in the course of the 
night ! " 

He was now alternately putting his hands into his pockets, as if 
he were going to keep them there a long time ; and taking them out 
again, and vehemently rubbing them all over his head. 

I ventured to take this opportunity of hinting tliat Mr. Skim- 
pole, being in all such matters, quite a child — 

" Eh, my dear 1 " said Mr. Jarndyce, catching at the word. 

" — Being quite a child, sir," said I, "and so different from 
other people " 

"You are right!" said Mr. Jarndyce, brightening. "Your 
woman's wit hits the mark. He is a child — an absolute child? 



RLKAK HOIISK. 75 

I told ymi he was ;i cliild, you know, when 1 first inentionetl 
liiiii." 

Certainly ! certainly ! we said. 

" And he is a cliild. Now, isn't he 1 " asked Mr. Jarndyce, 
brightening more and more. 

He was indeed, we said. 

" When you come to think of it, it's tlie height of childishness in 
you — I mean me — " said Mr. Jarndyce, " to regard him for a 
moment as a man. You can't make hi/n resi:)onsible. The idea of 
Harold Skimpole with designs or plans, or knowledge of conse- 
quences ! Ha, ha, ha ! " 

It was so delicious to see the clouds about his bright face clear- 
ing, and to see him so heartily pleased, and to know, as it was 
impossible not to know, that the source of his pleasure was the 
goodness which was tortured by condemning, or mistrusting, or 
secretly accusing any one, that I saw the tears in Ada's eyes, while 
she echoed his laugh, and felt them in my own. 

" Why, what a cod's head and shoulders I am," said Mr. Jarn- 
dyce, " to require reminding of it ! The whole business shows the 
child from beginning to end. Nobody but a child would have 
thouglit of singling t/ou two out for parties in the affair ! Nobody 
but a child would have thought of ^om- having the money ! If it 
had been a thousand pounds, it would have been just the same ! " 
said Mr. Jarndyce, with his whole face in a glow. 

We all confirmed it from our night's experience. 

" To be sure, to be sure ! " said Mr. Jarndyce. " However, Rick, 
Esther, and you too, Ada, for I don't know that even your little 
purse is safe from his inexperience — I must have a promise all 
round, that nothing of this sort shall ever be done any more. No 
advances ! Not even sixpences." 

We all promised faithfully ; Richard, with a merry glance at me, 
touching his pocket, as if to remind me that there was no danger 
of am- transgressing. 

" As to Skimpole," said Mr. Jarndyce, " a habitable doll's house, 
with good board, and a few tin people to get into debt with and 
borrow money of, would set the boy up in life. He is in a child's 
sleep by this time, I suppose ; it's time I should take my craftier 
head to my more worldly pillow. Good night, my dears. God 
bless you ! " 

He peeped in again, with a smiling face, before we had lighted 
our candles, and said, " ! I have been looking at the weather- 
cock. I find it was a false alarm about the wind. It's in the 
south ! " And went away, singing to himself. 

Ada and I agreed, as we talked together for a little while up- 



76 BLEAK HOUSE. 

stairs, that this caprice about the wind was a fiction ; and that he 
used the pretence to account for any disappointment he could not 
conceal, rather than he would blame the real cause of it, or disparage 
or depreciate any one. We thought this very characteristic of his 
eccentric gentleness ; and of the difference between him and those 
petulant people who make the weather and the winds (particularly 
that unlucky wind which he had chosen for such a different purpose) 
the stalking-horses of their splenetic and gloomy humours. 

Indeed, so much affection for him had been addetl in this one 
evening to my gratitude, that I hoped I already began to under- 
stand him through that mingled feeling. Any seeming inconsis- 
tencies in Mr. Skimpole, or in Mrs. Jellyby, I could not expect to 
be able to reconcile ; having so little experience or practical knowl- 
edge. Neither did I try ; for my thoughts were busy when I was 
alone, with Ada and Richard, and with the confidence I had seemed 
to receive concerning them. My fancy, made a little wild by the 
wind perhaps, would not consent to be all unselfish, either, though 
I would have persuaded it to be so if I could. It wandered back 
to my godmother's house, and came along the intervening track, 
raising up shadowy speculations which had sometimes trembled there 
in the dark, as to what knowledge Mr. Jamdyce had of my earliest 
history — even as to the possibility of his being my father — 
though that idle dream was quite gone now. 

It was all gone now, I remembered, getting up from the fire. 
It was not for me to muse over bygones, but to act with a cheerful 
spirit and a grateful heart. So I said to myself, " Esther, Esther, 
Esther ! Duty, my dear ! " and gave my little basket of house- 
keeping keys such a shake, that they sounded like little bells, and 
rang me hopefully to bed. 



CHAPTER VII. 

THE ghost's walk. 

While Esther sleeps, and while Esther wakes, it is still wet 
weather down at the place in Lincolnshire. The rain is ever falling, 
drip, drip, drip, by day and night, upon the broad flagged terrace- 
pavement, The Ghost's Walk. The weather is so very bad, down 
in Lincolnshire, that the liveliest imagination can scarcely appre- 
hend its ever being fine again. Not that there is any superabundant 
life of imagination on the spot, for Sir Leicester is not here (and, 
truly, even if he were, would not do much for it in that particular), 



I 



ii 



BLEAK HOUSE. 77 

but is iu Paris, with my Lady ; and solitude, with dusky wings, sits 
brooding ujDon Chesney Wold. 

There may be some motions of fancy among the lower animals 
at Chesney Wold. The horses in the stables — the long stables 
in a barren, red-brick courtyard, where there is a great bell in a 
turret, and a clock with a large face, which the pigeons who live 
near it, and who love to perch upon its shoulders, seem to be 
always consi;lting — they may contemplate some mental pictures 
of fine weather, on occasions, and may be better artists at them 
than the grooms. The old roan, so famous for cross-country work, 
turning his large eyeball to the grated window near his rack, may 
remember the fresh leaves that glisten there at other times, and 
the scents that stream in, and may have a fine run with the 
hounds, while the human helper, clearing out the next stall, never 
stirs beyond his pitchfork and birch-broom. The grey, whose place 
is opposite the door, and who, with an impatient rattle of his hal- 
ter, pricks his ears and turns his head so wistfully when it is 
opened, and to whom the opener says, " Woa grey, then, steady ! 
Noabody wants you to-day ! " may know it quite as well as the 
man. The whole seemingly monotonous and uncompanionable 
half-dozen, stabled together, may pass the long wet hours, when 
the door is shut, in livelier communication than is held in the ser- 
vants' hall, or at the Dedlock Arms ; — or may even beguile the 
time by improving (perhaps corrupting) the pony in the loose-box 
in the corner. 

So the mastiff, dozing in his kennel, in the courtyard, with his 
large head on his paws, may think of the hot sunshine, when the 
shadows of the stable-buildings tire his patience out by changing, 
and leave him, at one time of the day, no broader refuge than the 
shadow of his own house, where he sits on end, panting and growl- 
ing short, and very much wanting something to worry, besides him- 
self and his chain. So, now, half-waking and all-winking, he may 
recall the house full of company, the coach-houses full of vehicles, 
the stables full of horses, and the out-buildings full of attendants 
upon horses, until he is undecided about the present, and comes 
forth to see how it is. Then, with that impatient shake of him- 
self, he may growl, in the spirit, " Rain, rain, rain ! Nothing but 
rain — and no family here ! " as he goes in again, and lies down 
with a gloomy yawn. 

So with the dogs in the kennel-buildings across the park, who 
have their restless fits, and whose doleful voices, when the wind 
has been very obstinate, have even made it knowTi in the house 
itself: up-stairs, down-stairs, and in my lady's chamber. They 
may hunt the whole country-side, while the rain-drops are pattering 



78 BLEAK HOUSE. 

round their inactivity. So the rabbits with their self-betraying 
tails, frisking in and out of holes at roots of trees, may be lively 
with ideas of the breezy days when their ears are blown about, or 
of those seasons of interest when there are sweet young plants to 
gnaw. The turkey in the poultry-yard, always troubled with a 
class-grievance (probably Christmas), may be reminiscent of that 
summer-morning wrongfully taken from him, when he got into the 
lane among the felled trees, where there was a barn and barley. 
The discontented goose, who stoops to pass under the old gateway, 
twenty feet high, may gabble out, if we only knew it, a waddling 
preference for weather when the gateway casts its shadow on the 
ground. 

Be this as it may, there is not much fancy otherwise stirring at 
Chesney Wold. If there be a little at any odd moment, it goes, 
like a little noise in that old echoing place, a long way, and usu- 
ally leads off to ghosts and mystery. 

It has rained so hard and rained so long, down in Lincolnshire, 
that Mrs. Rouncewell, the old housekeeper at Chesney Wold, has 
several times taken off her spectacles and cleaned them, to make 
certain that the drops were not upon the glasses. Mrs. Rounce- 
well might have been sufficiently assured by hearing the rain, but 
that she is rather deaf, which nothing will induce her to believe. 
She is a fine old lady, handsome, stately, wonderfully neat, and has 
such a back, and such a stomacher, that if her stays should turn out 
when she dies to have been a broad old-fashioned family fire-grate, 
nobody who knows her would have cause to be surprised. Weather 
affects Mrs. Rouncewell little. The house is there in all weathers, 
aijid the house, as she expresses it, "is what she looks at." She 
sits in her room (in a side passage on the ground floor, with an 
arched window commanding a smooth quadrangle, adorned at regu- 
lar intervals with smooth round trees and smooth round blocks of 
stone, as if the trees were going to play at bowls with the stones), 
and the whole house reposes on her mind. She can open it on 
occasion, and be busy and fluttered; but it is shut up now, and 
lies on the breadth of Mrs. Rouncewell's iron-bound bosom, in a 
majestic sleep. 

It is the next diflicult thing to an impossibility to imagine 
Chesney Wold without Mrs. Rouncewell, but she has only been 
here fifty years. Ask her how long, this rainy day, and she shall 
answer " fifty year three months and a fortnight, by the blessing of 
Heaven, if I live till Tuesday." Mr. Rouncewell died some time 
before the decease of the pretty fashion of pig-tails, and naodestly 
hid his own (if he took it with him) in a corner of the churchyard 
in the park, near the mouldy porch. He was born in the market- 



BLEAK HOUSE. 79 

to^vll, and so was his young widow. Her i^rogress in the family 
began in the time of tlie last Sir Leicester, and originated in the 
still-roon:. 

The present representative of the Dedlocks is an excellent mas- 
ter. He supposes all his dependents to be utterly bereft of indi- 
vidual characters, intentions, or opinions, and is persuaded that he 
was born to supersede the necessity of their having any. If he 
were to make a discovery to the contrary, he would be simply 
stunned — would never recover himself, most likely, except to gasp 
and die. But he is an excellent master still, holding it a jiart of 
his state to be so. He has a great liking for Mrs. Rouncewell ; he 
says she is a most respectable, creditable woman. He always shakes 
hands with her, when he comes down to Chesney Wold, and when 
he goes away ; and if he were very ill, or if he were knocked down 
by accident, or run over, or placed in any situation expressive of a 
Dedlock at a disadvantage, he would say if he could speak, " Leave 
me, and send Mrs. Rouncewell here ! " feeling his dignity, at such 
a pass, safer with her than with anybody else. 

Mrs. Rouncewell has known trouble. She has had two sons, of 
whom the younger ran wild, and went for a soldier, and never came 
back. Even to this hour, Mrs. Rouncewell's calm hands lose their 
composure when she speaks of him, and unfolding themselves from 
her stomacher, hover about her in an agitated manner, as she says, 
what a likely lad, what a fine lad, what a gay, good-humoured, 
clever lad he was ! Her second son would have been provided for 
at Chesney Wold, and would have been made steward in due sea- 
son ; but he took, when he was a schoolboy, to constructing steam- 
engines out of saucepans, and setting birds to draw their own w^ater, 
with the least possible amount of labour ; so assisting them with 
artful contrivance of hydraulic pressure, that a thu'sty canaiy had 
only, in a literal sense, to put his shoulder to the wheel, and the 
job was done. This propensity gave Mrs. Rouncewell great uneasi- 
ness. She felt it, with a mother's anguish, to be a move in the Wat 
Tyler direction : well knowing that Sir Leicester had that general 
impression of an aptitude for any art to wdiich smoke and a tall chim- 
ney might be considered essential. But the doomed young rebel 
(otherwise a mild youth, and very persevering), showing no sign of 
grace as he got older ; but, on the contraiy, constructing a model 
of a power-loom, she was fain, with many tears, to mention his 
backslidings to the baronet. "Mrs. Rouncewell," said Sir Leices- 
ter, " I can never consent to argue, as you know, -with any one on 
any subject. You had better get rid of your boy ; you had better 
get him into some Works. The iron country farther north is, I 
suppose, the congenial direction for a boy with these tendencies." 



80 BLEAK HOUSE. 

Farther north he went, and farther north he grew up ; and if Sir j 
Leicester Dedlock ever saw him, when he came to Chesney Wold 
to visit his mother, or ever thought of him afterwards, it is certain 
that he only regarded him as one of a body of some odd thousand 
conspirators, swarthy and grim, who were in the habit of turning 
out by torchlight, two or three nights in the week, for unlawful 
purposes. 

Nevertheless Mrs. Kouncewell's son has, in the course of nature 
and art, grown up, and established himself, and married, and called 
unto him Mrs. Kouncewell's grandson : who, being out of his 
apprenticeship, and home from a journey in far countries, whither 
he was sent to enlarge his knowledge and complete his prepara- 
tion for the venture of this life, stands leaning against the chim- 
ney-piece this very day, in Mrs. Rouncewell's room at Chesney 
Wold. 

" And, again and again, I am glad to see you, Watt ! And, 
once again, I am glad to see you, Watt ! " says Mrs. Rouncewell. 
" You are a fine young fellow. You are like your poor uncle 
George. Ah ! " Mrs. Rouncewell's hands unquiet, as usual, on 
this reference. 

" They say I am like my father, grandmother." 

" Like him, also, my dear, — but most like your poor uncle 
George ! And your dear father." Mrs. Rouncewell folds her 
hands again. "He is well ? " 

" Thriving, grandmother, in every way." 

" I am thankful ! " Mrs. Rouncewell is fond of her son, but 
has a plaintive feeling towards him — much as if he were a very 
honourable soldier, who had gone over to the enemy. 

" He is quite happy ? " says she. 

"Quite." 

"I am thankful ! So he has brought you up to follow in his 
ways, and has sent you into foreign countries and the like 1 Well, 
he knows best. There may be a world beyond Chesney Wold that 
I don't understand. Though I am not young, either. And I have 
seen a quantity of good company too ! " 

"Grandmother," says the young man, changing the subject, 
" what a very pretty girl that was, I found with you just now. 
You called her Rosa ? " 

"Yes, child. She is daughter of a widow in the village. 
Maids are so hard to teach, now-a-days, that I have put her about 
me young. She's an apt scholar, and will do well. She shows 
the house already, very pretty. She lives with me, at my table 
here." 

" I hope I have not driven her away ? " 



BLEAK HOUSE. 81 

" She supposes we have family affairs to speak about, I dare say. 
She is very modest. It is a fine quality in a young woman. And 
scarcer," says Mrs. Rouncewell, expanding her stomacher to its 
utmost limits, " than it formerly was ! " 

The young man inclines his head, in acknowledgment of the pre- 
cepts of experience. Mrs. Rouncewell listens. 

" Wheels ! " says she. They have long been audible to the 
younger ears of her companion. " What wheels on such a day as 
this, for gracious sake 1 " 

After a short interval, a tap at the door. " Come in ! " A 
dark-eyed, dark-haired, shy, village beauty comes in — so fresh in 
her rosy and yet delicate bloom, that the drops of rain, which have 
beaten on her hair, look like the dew upon a flower fresh gathered. 

" What company is this, Rosa 1 " says Mrs. Rouncewell. 

" It's two young men in a gig, ma'am, who want to see the 
house — yes, and if you please, I told them so ! " in quick reply to 
a gesture of dissent from the housekeeper. " I went to the hall- 
door, and told them it was the wrong day, and the wrong hour ; 
but the young man who was driving took off his hat in the wet, 
and begged me to bring this card to you." 

" Read it, my dear Watt," says the housekeeper. 

Rosa is so shy as she gives it to him, that they drop it between 
them, and almost knock their foreheads together as they pick it 
up. Rosa is shyer than before. 

"Mr. Guppy" is all the information the card yields. 

" Guppy ! " repeats Mrs. Rouncewell. " Mr. Guppy ! Non- 
sense, I never heard of him ! " 

" If you please, he told me that ! " says Rosa. " But he said 
that he and the other young gentleman came from London only 
last night by the mail, on business at the magistrates' meeting, 
ten miles off", this morning ; and that as their business was soon 
over, and they had heard a great deal said of Chesney Wold, and 
really didn't know what to do with themselves, they had come 
through the wet to see it. They are lawyers. He says he is not 
in Mr. Tulkinghorn's office, but is sure he may make use of Mr. 
Tulkinghorn's name, if necessary." Finding, now she leaves off, 
that she has been making quite a long speech, Rosa is shyer than 
ever. 

Now, Mr. Tulkinghorn is, in a manner, part and parcel of the 
place ; and, besides, is supposed to have made Mrs. Rouncewell's 
wiU. The old lady relaxes, consents to the admission of the visitors 
as a favour, and dismisses Rosa. The grandson, however, being 
smitten by a sudden wish to see the house himself, proposes to 
join the party. The grandmother, who is pleased that he should 



82 BLEAK HOUSE. 

have that interest, accompanies him — though, to do him justice, he 
is exceedingly unwilling to trouble her. 

" Much obliged to you, ma'am ! " says Mr. Guppy, divesting 
himself of his wet dreadnought in the hall. " Us London lawyers 
don't often get an out ; and when we do, we like to make the most 
of it, you know." 

The old housekeeper, with a gracious severity of deportment, 
waves her hand towards the great staircase. Mr. Guppy and his 
friend follow Rosa, Mrs. Rouncewell and her grandson follow them, 
a young gardener goes before to open the shutters. 

As is usually the case with people who go over houses, Mr. 
Guppy and his friend are dead beat before they have well begun. 
They straggle about in wrong places, look at wrong things, don't 
care for the right things, gape when more rooms are opened, exhibit 
profound depression of spirits, and are clearly knocked up. In 
each successive chamber that they enter, Mrs. Rouncewell, who is 
as upright as the house itself, rests apart in a window-seat, or 
other such nook, and listens with stately approval to Rosa's exposi- 
tion. Her grandson is so attentive to it, that Rosa is shyer than 
ever — and prettier. Thus they pass on from room to room, rais- 
ing the pictured Dedlocks for a few brief minutes as the young 
gardener admits the light, and reconsigning them to their graves 
as he shuts it out again. It appears to the afflicted Mr. Guppy 
and his inconsolable friend, that there is no end to the Dedlocks, 
whose family greatness seems to consist in their never having done 
anything to distinguish themselves, for seven hundred years. 

Even the long drawing-room of Chesney Wold cannot revive 
Mr. Guppy's spirits. He is so low that he droops on the threshold, 
and has hardly strength of mind to enter. But a portrait over 
the chimney-piece, painted by the fashionable artist of the day, 
acts upon him like a charm. He recovers in a moment. He 
stares at it with uncommon interest; he seems to be fixed and 
fascinated by it. 

" Dear me ! " says Mr. Guppy. " Who's that ? " 

" The picture over the fire-place," says Rosa, " is the portrait of 
the present Lady Dedlock. It is considered a perfect likeness, and 
the best work of the master." 

" 'Blest ! " says Mr. Guj^py, staring in a kind of dismay at his 
friend, "if I can ever have seen her. Yet I know her ! Has the 
picture been engraved, miss ? " 

" The picture has never been engraved. Sir Leicester has always 
refused permission." 

" Well ! " says Mr. Guppy in a low voice, " I'll be shot if it 
ain't very curious how well I know that picture ! So that's Lady 
Dedlock, is it ! " 



BLEAK HOUSE. 83 

" The picture on the right is the present Sir Leicester Dedlock. 
The picture on the left is his father, the late Sir Leicester." 

Mr. Gruppy has no eyes for either of these magnates. " It's un- 
accountable to me," he says, still staring at the portrait, " how 
well I know that picture ! I'm dashed ! " adds Mr. Guppy, look- 
ing round, " if I don't think I must have had a dream of that 
picture, you know ! " 

As no one present takes any especial interest in Mr. Guppy's 
dreams, the probability is not pursued. But he still remains so 
absorbed by the portrait, that he stands immovable before it 
until the young gardener has closed the shutters ; when he comes 
out of the room in a dazed state, that is an odd though a sufficient 
substitute for interest, and follows into the succeeding rooms with 
a confused stare, as if he were looking everywhere for Lady Ded- 
lock again. 

He sees no more of her. He sees her rooms, which are the last 
shown, as being very elegant, and he looks out of the windows 
from which she looked out, not long ago, upon the weather that 
bored her to death. All tilings have an end — even houses that 
people take infinite pains to see, and are tired of before they begin 
to see them. He has come to the end of the sight, and the fresh 
village beauty to the end of her description ; which it, always this : 

" The terrace below is much admired. It is called, from an old 
story in the family. The Ghost's Walk." 

" No ? " says Mr. Guppy, greedily curious ; " what's the story, 
miss 1 Is it anything about a picture ? " 

"Pray tell us the story," says Watt, in a half whisper. 

" I don't know it, sir." Rosa is shyer than ever. 

" It is not related to visitors ; it is almost forgotten," says the 
liousekceper, advancing. " It has never been more than a family 
anecdote." 

" You'll excuse my asking again if it has anything to do with a 
picture, ma'am," observes Mr. Guppy, "because I do assure you 
that the more I think of that picture the better I know it, without 
knowing how I know it ! " 

The story has nothing to do with a picture ; the housekeeper 
can guarantee that. Mr. Guppy is obliged to her for the infor- 
mation; and is, moreover, generally obliged. He retires with his 
friend, guided down another staircase by the young gardener ; and 
presently is heard to drive away. It is now dusk. Mrs. Rounce- 
well can trust to the discretion of her two young hearers, and may 
tell them how the terrace came to have that ghostly name. She 
seats herself in a large chair by the fast-darkening window, and 
tells them : 



84 BLEAK HOUSE. 

" In the wicked days, my dears, of King Cliarles the First — I 
mean, of course, in the wicked days of the rebels who leagued 
themselves against that excellent King — Sir Morbury Dedlock 
was the owner of Chesney Wold. Whether there was any account 
of a ghost in the family before those days, I can't say. I should 
think it very likely indeed." 

Mrs. Rouncewell holds this opinion, because she considers that 
a family of such antiquity and importance has a right to a ghost. 
She regards a ghost as one of the privileges of the upper classes ; 
a genteel distinction, to which the common people have no claim. 

" Sir Morbuiy Dedlock," says Mrs.- RounceAvell, " was, I have 
no occasion to say, on the side of the blessed martyr. But it is 
supposed that his Lady, who had none of the family blood in her 
veins, favoured the bad cause. It is said that she had relations 
among King Charles's enemies ; that she was in correspondence 
with them ; and that she gave them information. When any of 
the countiy gentlemen who followed His Majesty's cause met here, 
it is said that my Lady was always nearer to the door of their 
council-room than they supposed. Do you hear a sound like a 
footstep passing along the terrace, Watt 1 " 

Rosa draws nearer to the housekeeper. 

"I hear the rain-drip on the stones," replies the young man, 
" and I hear a curious echo — I suppose an echo — which is very 
like a halting step." 

The housekeeper gravely nods and continues : 

" Partly on account of this division between them, and partly 
on other accounts. Sir Morbury and his Lady led a troubled life. 
She was a lady of a haughty temper. They were not well suited 
to each other in age or character, and they had no children to 
moderate between them. After her favourite brother, a young 
gentleman, was killed in the civil wars (by Sir Morbury's near 
kinsman), her feeling was so violent that she hated the race into 
which she had married. When the Dedlocks were about to ride 
out from Chesney Wold in the King's cause, she is supposed to 
have more than once stolen down into the stables in the dead of 
night, and lamed their horses ; and the story is, that once, at such 
an hour, her husband saw her gliding down the stairs and followed 
her into the stall where his own favourite horse stood. There he 
seized her by the wrist ; and in a struggle or in a fall, or through 
the horse being frightened and lashing out, she was lamed in the 
hip, and from that hour began to pine a\yay." 

The housekeeper has dropped her voice to little more than a 
whisper. 

" She had been a lady of a handsome figure and a noble carriage. 



BLEAK HOUSE. 85 

She never complained of the change ; she never spoke to any one 
of being crippled, or of being in pain ; but, day by day, she tried 
to walk upon the terrace ; and, with the help of a stick, and with 
the hcli^ of the stone balustrade, went up and down, up and down, 
up and down, in sun and shadow, with greater difficulty every day. 
At last, one afternoon, her husband (to whom she had never, on 
any persuasion, opened her lips since that night), standing at the 
great south window, saw her drop upon the pavement. He hastened 
down to raise her, but she repulsed him as he bent over her, and 
looking at him fixedly and coldly, said, ' I will die here, where I 
have walked. And I will walk here, though I am in my grave. 
I will walk here, until the pride of this house is humbled. And 
when calamity, or when disgrace is coming to it, let the Dedlocks 
listen for my step ! ' " 

Watt looks at Rosa. Rosa in the deepening gloom looks down 
upon the gi'ound, half frightened and half shy. 

" There and then she died. And from those days," says Mrs. 
Rouncewell, " the name has come down — The Ghost's "Walk. If 
the tread is an echo, it is an echo that is only heard after dark, 
and is often unheard for a long while together. But it comes back, 
from time to time ; and so sure as there is sickness or death in the 
family, it will be heard then." 

" — And disgrace, grandmother — " says Watt. 

" Disgrace never comes to Chesney Wold," returns the house- 
keeper. 

Her gi-andson apologises, with " Tme. True." 

" That is the stoiy. Whatever the sound is, it is a worrying 
sound," says Mrs. Rouncewell, getting up from her chair, "and 
what is to be noticed in it, is, that it must be heard. My Lady, 
who is afraid of nothing, admits that when it is there, it must be 
heard. You cannot shut it out. Watt, there is a tall French 
clock behind you (placed there, 'a purpose) that has a loud beat 
when it is in motion, and can play music. You understand how 
those things are managed ? " 

" Pretty well, grandmother, I think." 

" Set it a going." 

Watt sets it a going — music and all. 

"Now, come hither," says the housekeeper. "Hither, child, 
towards my Lady's pillow. I am not sure that it is dark enough 
yet, but listen ! Can you hear the sound upon the terrace, through 
the music, and the beat, and everything ? " 

" I certainly can ! " 

" So my Lady says." 



86 BLEAK HOUSE. 

CHAPTER VIII. 

COVERING A MULTITUDE OF SINS. 






It was interesting, when I dressed before daylight, to peep out 
of window, where my candles were reflected in the black panes like 
two beacons, and, finding all beyond still enshrouded in the indis- 
tinctness of last night, to watch how it turned out when the day 
came on. As the prospect gradually revealed itself, and disclosed 
the scene over which the mnd had wandered in the dark, like my 
memory over my life, I had a pleasure in discovering the unknown 
objects that had been around me in my sleep. At fu-st they were 
faintly discernible in the mist, and above them the later stars still 
glimmered. That pale interval over, the picture began to enlarge 
and fill up so fast, that, at every new peep, I could have found 
enough to look at for an hour. Imperceptibly, my candles became 
the only incongruous part of the morning, the dark places in my 
room all melted away, and the day shone bright upon a cheerful 
landscape, prominent in which the old Abbey Church, with its mas- 
sive tower, threw a softer train of shadow on the view than seemed 
compatible with its rugged character. But so from rough outsides 
(I hope I have learnt), serene and gentle influences often proceed. 

Every part of the house was in such order, and every one was so 
attentive to me, that I had no trouble with my two bunches of 
keys : though what with trying to remember the contents of each 
little store-room drawer, and cupboard ; and what with making 
notes on a slate about jams, and pickles, and preserves, and bottles, 
and glass, and china, and a great many other things ; and what 
with being generally a methodical, old-maidish sort of foolish little 
person ; I was so busy that I could not believe it was breakfast- 
time when I heard the bell ring. Away I ran, however, and made 
tea, as I had already been installed into the responsibility of the 
teapot ; and then, as they were all rather late, and nobody was 
down yet, I thought I would take a peep at the garden and get 
some knowledge of that too. I found it quite a delightful place ; 
in front, the pretty avenue and drive by which we had approached 
(and where, by-the-bye, we had cut up the gravel so terribly with 
our wheels that I asked the gardener to roll it) ; at the back, the 
flower-garden, with my darling at her window up there, throwing 
it open to smile out at me, as if she would have kissed me from 
that distance. Beyond the flower-garden was a kitchen-garden, 
and then a paddock, and then a snug little rick-yard, and then a 
dear little farm-yard. As to the House itself, with its three peaks 
in the roof; its various-shaped windows, some so lai'ge, some so 



BLEAK HOUSE. 87 

small, and all so pretty ; its trellis-work against the south-front 
for roses and honey-suckle, and its homely, comfortable, welcoming 
look : it was, as Ada said, when she came out to meet me with 
her arm through that of its master, worthy of her cousin John 
— a bold thing to say, though he only pinched her dear cheek 
for it. 

Mr. Skimpole was as agreeable at breakfast, as he had been 
over-night. There was honey on the table, and it led him into a 
discourse about Bees. He had no objection to honey, he said (and 
I should think he had not, for he seemed to like it), but he pro- 
tested against the overweening assumptions of Bees. He didn't at 
all see why the busy Bee should be proposed as a model to him ; he 
supposed the Bee liked to make honey, or he wouldn't do it — 
nobody asked him. It was not necessary for the Bee to make such 
a merit of his tastes. If every confectioner went buzzing about the 
world, banging against everything that came in his way, and egotis- 
tically calling upon everybody to take notice that he vras going to 
his work and must not be interrupted, the world woixld be quite an 
insupportable place. Then, after all, it was a ridiculous position, 
to be smoked out of your fortune with brimstone, as soon as you 
had made it. You would have a very mean opinion of a Manchester 
man, if he spun cotton for no other purpose. He must say he 
thought a Drone the embodiment of a pleasanter and wiser idea. 
The Drone said, unaffectedly, " You will excuse me ; I really cannot 
attend to the shop ! I find myself in a world in which there is so 
much to see, and so short a time to see it in, that I must take the 
liberty of looking about me, and begging to be provided for by 
somebody who doesn't want to look about him." This appeared to 
Mr. Skimpole to be the Drone philosophy, and he thought it a very 
good 23bilosophy — always supposing the Drone to be willing to be 
on good terms with the Bee : which, so far as he knew, the easy 
fellow always was, if the consequential creature would only let him, 
and not be so conceited about his honey ! 

He pursued this fancy with the lightest foot over a variety of 
ground, and made us all merry ; though again he seemed to have as 
serious a meaning in what he said as he was capable of having. I 
left them still listening to him, when I withdrew to attend to my 
new duties. They had occupied me for some time, and I was pass- 
ing through the passages on ray return with my basket of keys on 
my arm, when Mr. Jarndyce called me into a small room next his 
bed-chamber, which I found to be in part a little libraiy of books 
and papers, and in part quite a little museum of his boots and 
•shoes, and hat-boxes. 

"Sit down, my dear," said Mr. Jarndyce. "This, you must 



88 BLEAK HOUSE. 

know, is the Growlery. When I am out of humour, I come and 
growl here." 

" You must be here very seldom, sir," said I. 

" 0, you don't know me ! " he returned. " When I am deceived 
or disappointed in — the wind, and it's Easterly, I take refuge 
here. The Growleiy is the best-used room in the house. You 
are not aware of half my humours yet. My dear, how you are 
trembling ! " 

I could not help it : I tried very hard : but being alone with 
that benevolent presence, and meeting his kind eyes, and feeling so 
happy, and so honoured there, and my heart so full 

I kissed his hand. I don't know what I said, or even that I 
spoke. He was disconcerted, and walked to the window ; I almost 
believed with an intention of jumping out, until he turned, and I 
was reassured by seeing in his eyes what he had gone there to hide. 
He gently patted me on the head, and I sat down. 

" There ! There ! " he said. " That's over. Pooh ! Don't be 
foolish." 

" It shall not happen again, sir," I returned, " but at first it is 
difficult " 

" Nonsense ! " he said, " it's easy, easy. Why not 1 I hear of 
a good little orphan girl without a protector, and I take it into 
my head to be that protector. She grows up, and more than justi- 
fies my good opinion, and I remain her guardian and her friend. 
What is there in all thi§ ? So, so ! Now, we have cleared off old 
scores, and I have before me thy pleasant, trusting, trusty face again." 

I said to myself, " Esther, my dear, you surprise me ! This 
really is not what I expected of you ! " and it had such a good 
effect, that I folded my hands upon my basket and quite recovered 
myself Mr. Jarndyce, expressing his approval in his face, began 
to talk to me as confidentially as if I had been in the habit of con- 
versing with him every morning for I don't know how long. I 
almost felt as if I had. 

" Of course, Esther," he said, " you don't understand this Chan- 
cery business ? " 

And of course I shook my head. 

"I don't know who does," he returned. "The Lawyers have 
twisted it into such a state of bedevilment that the original 
merits of the case have long disappeared from the face of the earth. 
It's about a Will, and the trusts under a Will — or it was, once. 
It's about nothing but Costs, now. We are -always appearing, 
and disappearing, and swearing, and interrogating, and filing, and 
cross-filing, and arguing, and sealing, and motioning, and referring, 
and reporting, and revolving about the Lord Chancellor and all 



BLEAK HOUSE. 89 

his satellites, and equitably waltzing ourselves off to dusty death, 
about Costs. That's the great question. All the rest, by some 
extraordinary means, has melted away." 

"But it was, sir," said I, to bring him back, for he began to 
rub his head, " about a Will 1 " 

"Why, yes, it was about a Will when it was about anything," 
he returned. " A certain Jamdyce, in an evil hour, made a great 
fortune, and made a great Will. In the question how the trusts 
under that Will are to be administered, the fortune left by the 
Will is squandered away ; the legatees under the Will are reduced 
to such a miserable condition that they would be sufficiently pun- 
ished, if they had committed an enormous crime in having money 
left them ; and the Will itself is made a dead letter. All through 
the deplorable cause, everything that eveiybody in it, except one 
man, knows already, is referred to that only one man who don't 
know it, to find out — all through the deplorable cause, everybody 
must have copies, over and over again, of everything that has 
accumulated about it in the way of cartloads of papers (or must 
pay for them without having them, which is the usual course, for 
nobody wants them) ; and must go down the middle and up again, 
through such an infernal country-dance of costs and fees and non- 
sense and corruption, as was never dreamed of in the wildest 
visions of a Witch's Sabbath. Equity sends questions to Law, 
Law sends questions back to Equity ; Law finds it can't do this. 
Equity finds it can't do that ; neither can so much as say it can't 
do anything, mthout this solicitor instructing and this counsel 
appearing for A, and that solicitor instructing and that counsel 
appearing for B ; and so on through the whole alphabet, like the 
history of the Apple Pie. And thus, through years and years, and 
lives and lives, everything goes on, constantly beginning over and 
over again, and nothing ever ends. And we can't get out of the 
suit on any terms, for we are made parties to it, and must be 
parties to it, whether we like it or not. But it won't do to think 
of it ! When my great uncle, poor Tom Jamdyce, began to think 
of it, it was the beginning of the end ! " 

" The Mr. Jarndyce, sir, whose story I have heard 1 " 

He nodded gravely. " I was his heir, and this was his house, 
Esther. When I came here, it was bleak, indeed. He had left 
the signs of his misery upon it." 

" How changed it must be now ! " I said. 

" It had been called, before his time, the Peaks. He gave it 
its present name, and lived here shut up : day and night poring 
over tlie wicked heaps of papers in the suit, and hoping against 
hope to disentangle it from its mystification and bring it to a 



90 BLEAK HOUSE. 

close. In the meantime, the place became dilapidated, the wind 
whistled through the cracked walls, the rain fell through the 
broken roof, the weeds choked the passage to the rotting door. 
When I brought what remained of him home here, the brains 
seemed to me to have been blown out of the house too ; it was 
so shattered and ruined." 

He walked a little to and fro, after saying this to himself with 
a shudder, and then looked at me, and brightened, and came and 
sat down again with his hands in his pockets. 

" I told you this was the Growlery, my dear. Where was I? " 

I reminded him, at the hopeful change he had made in Bleak 
House. 

" Bleak House : true. There is, in that city of London there, 
some property of ours, which is much at this day what Bleak 
House was then, — I say property of ours, meaning of the Suit's, 
but I ought to call it the property of Costs ; for Costs is the only 
power on earth that will ever get anything out of it now, or will 
ever know it for anything but an eyesore and a heartsore. It is 
a street of perishing blind houses, with their eyes stoned out ; 
without a pane of glass, without so much as a window-frame, with 
the bare blank shutters tumbling from their hinges and falling 
asunder ; the iron rails peeling away in flakes of rust ; the chim- 
neys sinking in ; the stone steps to eveiy door (and every door 
might be Death's Door) turning stagnant green ; the very crutches 
on Avhich the ruins are propped, decaying. Although Bleak House 
was not in Chancery, its master was, and it was stamped with the 
same seal. These are the Great Seal's impressions, my dear, all 
over England — the children know them ! " 

" How changed it is ! " I said again. 

" Why, so it is," he answered much more cheerfully ; " and it 
is wisdom in you to keep me to the bright side of the picture." 
' (The idea of my wisdom !) " These are things I never talk about, 
or even think about, excepting in the Growlery here. If you con- 
sider it right to mention them to Rick and Ada," looking seriously 
at me, " you can. I leave it to your discretion, Esther." 

"I hope, sir" — said I. 

" I think you had better call me Guardian, my dear." 

I felt that I was choking again — I taxed myself with it, 
" Esther, now, you know you are ! " — when he feigned to say this 
slightly, as if it were a whim, instead of a thoughtful tenderness. 
But I gave the housekeeping keys the least shake in the world 
as a reminder to myself, and folding my hands in a still more 
determined manner on the basket, looked at him quietly. 

" I hope, Guardian," said I, "that you may not trust too much 



BLEAK HOUSE. 91 

to my discretion. I hope you may not mistake me. I am afraid 
it will be a disappointment to you to know that I am not clever 
— but it really is the truth ; and you would soon find it out if I 
had not the honesty to confess it." 

He did not seem at all disappointed : quite the contrary. He 
told me, with a smile all over his face, that he knew me veiy well 
indeed, and that I was quite clever enough for him. 

"I hope I may turn out so," said I, "but I am much afraid of 
it. Guardian." 

"You are clever enough to be the good little woman of our 
lives here, my dear," he returned, playfully ; " the little old woman 
of the Child's (I don't mean Skimpole's) Rhyme. 

" ' Little old woman, and whither so high ? ' — 
' To sweep the cobwebs out of the sky.' 

You will sweep them so neatly out of our sky, in the course of 
your housekeeping, Esther, that one of these days, we shall have 
to abandon the Growlery, and nail up the door." 

This was the beginning of my being called Old Woman, and 
Little Old Woman, and Cobweb, and Mrs. Shipton, and Mother 
Hubbard, and Dame Durden, and so many names of that sort, that 
my own name soon became quite lost among them. 

" How^ever," said Mr. Jarndyce, " to return to our gossip. Here's 
Rick, a fine young fellow full of promise. What's to be done with 
him?'" 

my goodness, the idea, of asking my advice on such a point ! 

"Here he is, Esther," said Mr. Jarndyce, comfortably putting 
his hands in his pockets and stretching out his legs. " He must 
have a profession ; he must make some choice for himself. There 
will be a world more Wiglomeration about it, I suppose, but it , 
must be done." 

" More what, Guardian 1 " said I. 

" More Wiglomeration," said he. " It's the only name I know 
for the thing. He is a ward in Chancery, my dear. Kenge and 
Carboy will have something to say about it ; Master Somebody — 
a sort of ridiculous Sexton, digging graves for the merits of causes 
in a back room at the end of Quality Court, Chancery Lane — will 
have something to say about it ; Counsel will have something to 
say about it ; the Chanceller will have something to say about it ; 
the Satellites will have something to say about it ; they will all 
have to be handsomely fee'd, all round, about it ; the whole thing 
will be vastly ceremonious, wordy, unsatisfactory, and expensive, 
and I call it, in general, Wiglomeration. How mankind ever came 



92 BLEAK HOUSE. 

to be afflicted with Wiglomeration, or for whose sins these young 
people ever fell into a pit of it, I don't know ; so it is." 

He began to rub his head again, and to hint that he felt the 
wind. But it was a delightful instance of his kindness towards me, 
that whether he rubbed his head, or walked about, or did both, his 
face was sure to recover its benignant expression as it looked at 
mine ; and he was sure to turn comfortable again, and put his 
hands in his pockets and stretch out his legs. 

"Perhaps it would be best, first of all," said I, "to ask Mr. 
Richard what he inclines to himself" 

" Exactly so," he returned. " That's what I mean ! You know, 
just accustom yourself to talk it over, with your tact and in your 
quiet way, with him and Ada, and see what you all make of it. 
We are sure to come at the hea^ of the matter by your means, 
little woman." 

I really was frightened at the thought of the importance I was 
attaining, and the number of things that were being confided to 
me. I had not meant this at all ; I had meant that he should 
speak to Richard. But of course I said nothing in reply, except 
that I would do my best, though I feared (I really felt it necessary 
to repeat this) that he thought me much more sagacious than I 
was. At which my guardian only laughed the pleasautest laugh 
I ever heard. 

" Come ! " he said, rising and pushing back his chair. " I think 
we may have done with the Growlery for one day ! Only a conclud- 
ing word. Esther, my dear, do you wish to ask me anything ? " 

He looked so attentively at me, that I looked attentively at him, 
and felt sure I understood him. 

" About myself, sir ? " said I. 

" Yes." 

" Guardian," said I, venturing to put my hand, which was sud- 
denly colder than I could have wished, in his, " nothing ! I am 
quite sure that if there were anything I ought to know, or had any 
need to know, I should not have to ask you to tell it to me. If 
my whole reliance and confidence were not placed in you, I must 
have a hard heart indeed. I have nothing to ask you ; nothing in 
the world." 

He drew my hand through his arm, and we went away to look 
for Ada. From that hour I felt quite easy with him, quite un- 
reserved, quite content to know no more, quite happy. 

We lived, at first, rather a busy life at Bleak House ; for we had 
to become acquainted with many residents in and out of the neigh- 
bourhood who knew Mr. Jarndyce. It seemed to Ada and me that 
everybody knew him, who wanted to do anything with anybody 



I 



BLEAK HOUSE. 93 

else's money. It amazed us, when we began to sort his letters, and 
to answer some of them for him in the Growlery of a morning, to 
find how the great object of the lives of nearly all his correspondents 
appeared to be to form themselves into committees for getting in 
and laying out money. The ladies were as desperate as the gen- 
tlemen ; indeed, I think they were even more so. They threw 
themselves into committees in the most impassioned manner, and 
collected subscriptions with a vehemence quite extraordinary. It 
appeared to us that some of them must pass their whole lives in 
dealing out subscription-cards to the whole Post-office Directory 
— shilling cards, half-crown cards, half-sovereign cards, penny 
cards. They wanted everything. They wanted wearing apparel, 
they wanted linen rags, they wanted money, they wanted coals, they 
wanted soup, they wanted interest, they wanted autographs, they 
wanted flannel, they wanted whatever Mr. Jarndyce had — or had 
not. Their objects were as various as their demands. They were 
going to raise new buildings, they were going to pay off debts on 
old buildings, they were going to establish in a picturesque building 
(engraving of proposed West Elevation attached) the Sisterhood 
of Mediaeval Marys ; they were going to give a testimonial to Mrs. 
Jelly by ; they were going to have their Secretary's portrait painted, 
and presented to his mother-in-law, whose deep devotion to him 
was well known ; they were going to get iip eveiything, I really 
believe, from five hundred thousand tracts to an annuity, and from 
a marble monument to a silver teapot. They took a multitude of 
titles. They were the Women of England, the Daughters of 
Britain, the Sisters of all the Cardinal Virtues separately, the 
Females of America, the Ladies of a hundred denominations. 
They appeared to be always excited about canvassing and electing. 
They seemed to our poor wits, and according to their own accounts, 
to be constantly polling people by tens of thousands, yet never 
bringing their candidates in for anything. It made our heads ache 
to think, on the whole, what feverish lives they must lead. 

Among the ladies who were most distinguished for this rapacious 
benevolence (if I may use the expression), was a Mrs. Pardiggle, 
who seemed, as I judged from the number of her letters to Mr. 
Jarndyce, to be almost as powerful a correspondent as Mrs. Jellyby 
herself. We observed that the wind always changed, when Mrs. 
Pardiggle became the subject of conversation : and that it invariably 
interrupted Mr. Jarndyce, and prevented his going any farther, 
when he had remarked that there were two classes of charitable 
people ; one, the people who did a little and made a great deal of 
noise ; the other, the people who did a great deal and made no 
noise at all. We were therefore curious to see Mrs. Pardiggle, 



94 BLEAK HOUSE. 

suspecting her to be a type of the former class ; and were glad 
when she called one day with her five young sons. 

She was a formidable style of lady, with spectacles, a prominent 
nose, and a loud voice, who had the eifect of wanting a great deal 
of room. And she really did, for she knocked down little chairs 
with her skirts that were quite a great way off. As only Ada 
and I were at home, we received her timidly ; for she seemed to 
come in like cold weather, and to make the little Pardiggles blue as 
they followed. 

" These, young ladies," said Mrs. Pardiggle, with great volubility, 
after the first salutations, "are my five boys. You mayiiave seen 
their names in a printed subscription list (perhaps more than one), 
in the possession of our esteemed friend, Mr. Jarndyce. Egbert, 
my eldest (twelve), is the boy who sent out his pocket-money, to 
the amount of five-and-threepence, to the Tockahoopo Indians. 
Oswald, my second (ten-and-a-half), is the child who contributed two^ 
and-ninepence to the G-reat National Smithers Testimonial. Franciaji 
my third (nine), one-and-sixpence-halfpenny ; Felix, ray fourth 
(seven), eightpence to the Superannuated Widows ; Alfred, my 
youngest (five), has voluntarily enrolled himself in the Infant 
Bonds of Joy, and is pledged never, through life, to use tobacco in 
any form." 

We had never seen such dissatisfied children. It was not merely 
that they were weazened and shrivelled — though they were cer- 
tainly that too — but they looked absolutely ferocious with discon- 
tent. At the mention of the Tockahoopo Indians, I could really 
have supposed Egbert to be one of the most baleful members of 
that tribe, he gave me such a savage frown. The face of eacli 
child, as the amount of his contribution was mentioned, darkened 
in a peculiarly vindictive manner, but his was by far the worst. I 
must excejDt, however, tlie little recruit into the Infant Bonds of 
Joy, who was stolidly and evenly miserable. 

" You have been visiting, I understand," said Mrs. Pardiggle, " at 
Mrs. Jellyby's?" 

We said yes, we had passed one night there. 

" Mrs. Jellyby," pursued the lady, always speaking in the sar 
demonstrative, loud, hard tone, so that her voice impressed my fano^ 
as if it had a sort of spectacles on too — and I may take the oppoi! 
timity of remarking that her spectacles were made the less engaging 
by her eyes being what Ada called " choking eyes," meaning very 
prominent : " Mrs. Jellyby is a benefactor to society, and deserves 
a helping hand. My boys have contributed to the African project 
— Egbert, one-and-six, being the entire allowance of nine weeks ; 
Oswald, one-and-a-penny-halfpenny, being tlie same ; the rest, ac- 



BLEAK HOUSE. 95 

cording to their little means. Nevertheless, I do not go with Mrs. 
Jellyby in all things. I do not go with Mrs. Jellyby in her treat- 
ment of her young family. It has been noticed. It has been 
observed that her young family are excluded from particii^ation in 
the objects to which she is devoted. She may be right, she may 
be wrong ; but, right or wrong, this is not my course with my 
young family. I take them everywhere." 

I was afterwards convinced (and so was Ada) that from the ill- 
conditioned eldest child, these words extorted a sharp yell. He 
turned it off into a yawn, but it began as a yell. 

" Tht/ attend Matins with me (very prettily done), at half-past 
six o'clock in the morning all the year round, including of course 
the depth of winter," said Mrs. Pardiggle rapidly, " and they are 
with me during the revolving duties of the day. I am a School 
lady, I am a Visiting lady, I am a Reading lady, I am a Distribut- 
ing lady ; I am on the local Linen Box Committee, and many gen- 
eral Committees ; and my canvassing alone is very extensive — 
perhaps no one's more so. But they are my comjoanions every- 
where ; and by these means they acquire that knowledge of the 
poor, and that capacity of doing charitable business in general — 
in short, that taste for the sort of thing — which will render them 
in after life a service to their neighbours, and a satisfaction to 
themselves. My young family are not frivolous ; they expend the 
entire amount of their allowance in subscriptions, under my direc- 
tion ; and they have attended as many public meetings, and listened 
to as many lectures, orations, and discussions, as generally fall to 
the lot of few grown people. Alfred (five), who, as I mentioned, 
has of his own election joined the Infant Bonds of Joy, was one 
of the very few children who manifested consciousness on that occa- 
sion, after a fervid address of two hours from the chairman of the 
evening." 

Alfred glowered at us as if he never could, or would, forgive the 
injuiy of that night. 

" You may have observed, Miss Summerson," said Mrs. Pardiggle, 
" in some of the lists to which I have referred, in the possession 
of our esteemed friend Mr. Jamdyce, that the names of my young 
femily are concluded with the name of 0. A. Pardiggle, F.R.S., 
one pound. That is their father. We usually observe the same 
routine. I put down my mite first ; then my young family enrol 
their contributions, according to their ages and their little means ; 
and then Mr. Pardiggle brings up the rear. Mr. Pardiggle is happy 
to throw in his limited donation, under my direction ; and thus 
things are made, not only pleasant to ourselves, but, we trust, 
improving to others." 



96 BLEAK HOUSE. 

Suppose Mr. Pardiggle were to dine with Mr. Jellyby, and sup- 
pose Mr. Jellyby were to relieve his mind after dinner to Mr. 
Pardiggle, would Mr. Pardiggle, in return, make any confidential 
communication to Mr. Jellyby 1 I was quite confu.sed to find 
myself thinking this, but it came into my head. 

" You are very pleasantly situated here ! " said Mrs. Pojrdig- 
gle. 

We were glad to change the subject ; and, going to the window, 
pointed out the beauties of the prospect, on which the spectacles 
appeared to me to rest with curious indifference. 

" You know Mr. Gusher 1 " said our visitor. 

We were obliged to say that we had not the pleasure of Mr. 
Gusher's acquaintance. 

" The loss is yours, I assure you," said Mrs. Pardiggle, with her 
commanding deportment. " He is a very fervid impassioned speaker 
— full of fire ! Stationed in a waggon on this lawn, now, which, 
from the shajJe of the land, is naturally adapted to a public meet- 
ing, he would improve almost any occasion you could mention for 
hours and hours ! By this time, young ladies," said Mrs. Pardiggle, 
moving back to her chair, and overturning, as if by invisible agency, 
a little round table at a considerable distance with my work-basket 
on it, " by this time you have found me out, I dare say ? " 

This was really such a confusing question that Ada looked at me 
in perfect dismay. As to the guilty nature of my own conscious- 
ness, after what I had been thinking, it must have been expressed 
in the colour of my cheeks. 

" Found out, I mean," said Mrs. Pardiggle, "the prominent point 
in my character. I am aware that it is so prominent as to be dis- 
coverable immediately. I lay myself open to detection, I know. 
Well ! I freely admit, I am a woman of business. I love hard 
work ; I enjoy hard work. The excitement does me good. I am 
so accustomed and inured to hard work, that I don't know what 
fatigue is." 

We murmured that it was very astonishing and very gratifying ; 
or something to that effect. I don't think we knew why it was 
either, but this was what our politeness expressed. 

"I do not understand what it is to be tired ; you cannot tire 
me if you try ! " said Mrs. Pardiggle. " The quantity of exertion 
(which is no exertion to me), the amount of business (which I regard 
as nothing) that I go through, sometimes astonishes myself. I 
have seen my young family, and Mr. Pardiggle, quite worn out with 
witnessing it, when I may truly say I have been as fresh as a 
lark ! " 

If that dark-visaged eldest boy could look more malicious than 



BLEAK HOUSE. 97 

he had already looked, this was the time when he did it. I observed 
that he doubled his right fist, and delivered a secret blow into the 
crown of his cap, which was under his left arm. 

" This gives me a great advantage when I am making my rounds," 
said Mrs. Pardiggle. " If I find a person unwilling to hear what I 
have to say, I tell that person directly, ' I am incapable of fatigue, 
my good friend, I am never tired, and I mean to go on until I have 
done.' It answers admirably ! Miss Summerson, I hope I shall 
have yoiu" assistance in my visiting rounds immediately, and Miss 
Clare's very soon 1 " 

At first I tried to excuse myself, for the present, on the general 
ground of having occupations to attend to, which I must not neglect. 
But as this was an ineffectual protest, I then said, more particularly, 
that I was not sure of my qualifications. That I was inexperienced 
in the art of adapting my mind to minds very differently situated, 
and addressing them from suitable points of view. That I had not 
that delicate knowledge of the heart which must be essential to 
such a work. That I had much to learn, myself, before I could 
teach others, and that I could not confide in my good intentions 
alone. For these reasons, I thought it best to be as useful as I 
could, and to render what kind services I could, to those immedi- 
ately about me ; and to try to let that circle of duty gradually and 
naturally expand itself All this I said, with anything but confi- 
dence ; because Mrs. Pardiggle was much older than I, and had 
great experience, and was so very military in her manners. 

"You are wrong. Miss Summerson," said she: "but perhaps 
you are not equal to hard work, or the excitement of it ; and that 
makes a vast difference. If you woidd like to see how I go 
through my work, I am now about — with my young family — to 
visit a brickmaker in the neighbourhood (a very bad character), 
and shall be glad to take you with me. Miss Clare also, if she 
will do me the favour." 

Ada and I interchanged looks, and, as we were going out in any 
case, accepted the offer. When we hastily returned from putting 
on our bonnets, we found the young family languishing in a corner, 
and ]\Irs. Pardiggle sweeping about the room, knocking down nearly 
all the light objects it contained. Mrs. Pardiggle took possession 
of Ada, and I followed with the family. 

Ada told me afterwards that Mrs. Pardiggle talked in the same 
loud tone (that, indeed, I overheard), all the way to the brick- 
maker's, about an exciting contest which she had for two or three 
years waged against another lady, relative to the bringing in of 
their rival candidates for a pension somewhere. There had been a 
quantity of printing, and promising, and proxJ^ng, and polling ; and 



98 BLEAK HOUSE. 

it appeared to have imparted great liveliness to all concerned, except 
the pensioners — who were not elected yet. 

I am very fond of being confided in by children, and am happy 
in being usually favoured in that respect, but on this occasion it 
gave me great uneasiness. As soon as we were out of doors, Egbert, 
with the manner of a little footpad, demanded a shilling of me, on 
the ground that his pocket-money was " boned " from him. On 
my pointing out the great impropriety of the word, especially in 
connection with his parent (for he added svdkily " By her ! "), he 
pinched me and said " then ! Now ! Who are you ! You 
wouldn't like it, I think 1 What does she make a sham for, and 
pretend to give me money, and take it away again ? Why do you 
call it m^/ allowance, and never let me spend it 1 " These exasper- 
ating questions so inflamed his mind, and the minds of Oswald and 
Francis, that tliey all pinched me at once, and in a dreadfully 
expert way : screwing up such little pieces of my arms that I could 
hardly forbear crying out. Felix, at the same time, stamped upon 
my toes. And the Bond of Joy, who, on account of always having 
the whole of his little income anticijiated, stood in fact pledged to 
abstain from cakes as well as tobacco, so swelled with grief and 
rage when we passed a pastry-cook's shop, that he terrified me by 
becoming purple. I never underwent so much, both in body and 
mind, in the course of a walk with young people, as from these 
unnaturally constrained children, when they paid me the compliment 
of being natural. 

I was glad when we came to the brickmaker's house ; though it 
was one of a cluster of wretched hovels in a brickfield, with pigsties 
close to the broken windows, and miserable little gardens before 
the doors, growing nothing but stagnant pools. Here and there, 
an old tub was put to catch the droppings of rain-water from a 
roof, or they were banked up with mud into a little pond like a 
large dirt-pie. At the doors and windows, some men and women 
lounged or prowled about, and took little notice of us, except to 
laugh to one another, or to say something as we passed, about 
gentlefolks minding their own business, and not troubling their 
heads and muddying their shoes with coming to look after other 
people's. 

Mrs. Pardiggle, leading the way with a great show of moral 
determination, and talking with much volubility about the untidy 
habits of the people (though I doubted if the best of us could have 
been tidy in such a place), conducted us into a cottage at the 
farthest corner, the ground-floor room of which we nearly filled. 
Besides ourselves, there were in this damp offensive ]-oom — a 
woman with a black eye. nursing u poor little gasping baby by the 



BLEAK HOUSE. 99 

fire ; a man, all stained with clay and mud, and looking very 
dissipated, lying at full length on the ground, smoking a pipe ; a 
powerful young man, fastening a collar on a dog ; and a bold girl, 
doing some kind of washing in very dirty water. They all looked 
up at us as we came in, and the woman seemed to turn her face 
towards the fire, as if to hide her bruised eye ; nobody gave us any 
welcome. 

" Well, my friends," said Mrs. Pardiggle ; but her voice had not 
a friendly sound, I thought ; it was much too business-like and 
systematic. "How do you do, all of you? lam here again. I 
told you, you couldn't tire me, you know. I am fond of hard 
work, and am true to my word." 

" There an't," growled the man on the floor, whose head rested 
on his hand as he stared at us, " any more on you to come in, is 
there ? " 

" No, my friend," said Mrs. Pardiggle, seating herself on one 
stool, and knocking down another. " We are all here." 

" Because I thought there warn't enough of you, perhaps ? " 
said the man, with his pipe between his lips, as he looked round 
upon us. 

The young man and the girl both laughed. Two friends of the 
young man whom we had attracted to the doorway, and who stood 
there with their hands in their pockets, echoed the laugh noisily. 

"You can't tire me, good people," said Mrs. Pardiggle to these 
latter. " I enjoy hard work ; and the harder you make mine, the 
better I hke it." 

" Then make it easy for her ! " growled the man upon the floor. 
" I wants it done, and over. I Avants a end of these liberties took 
with my place. I wants a end of being drawed like a badger. 
Now you're a going to poll-pry and question according to custom — 
I know what you're a going to be up to. Well ! You haven't got 
no occasion to be up to it. I'll save you the trouble. Is my 
daughter a washin 1 Yes, she is a washin. Look at the water. 
Smell it ! That's wot we drinks. How do you like it, and what 
do you think of gin, instead ! An't my place dirty ? Yes, it is 
dirty — it's nat'rally dirty, and it's nat'rally onwholesome ; and 
we've had five dirty and onwholesome children, as is all dead 
infants, and so much the better for them, and for us besides. 
Have I read the little book wot you left? No, I an't read the 
little book wot you left. There an't nobody here as knows how to 
read it ; and if there wos, it wouldn't be suitable to me. It's a 
book fit for a babby, and I'm not a babby. If you was to leave 
me a doll, I shouldn't nuss it. How have I been conducting of 
myself? Why, I've been drunk for three days ; and I'd a been 



BLEAK HOUSE. 101 

clruiik four, if I'd a had the money. Don't I never mean for to go 
to church ? No, I don't never mean for to go to church. I 
shouldn't be expected there, if I did ; the beadle's too gen-teel for 
me. And how did my wife get that black eye ? Why, I giv' it 
her ; and if she says I didn't, she's a Lie ! " 

He had pulled his pipe out of his mouth to say all this, and he 
now turned over on his other side, and smoked again. Mrs. 
Pardiggle, who had been regarding him through her spectacles 
with a forcible composure, calculated, I could not help thinking, to 
increase his antagonism, pulled out a good book, as if it were a 
constable's staff, and took the whole family into custody. I mean 
into religious custody, of course ; but she really did it, as if she 
were an inexorable moral Policeman carrying them all off" to a 
station-house. 

Ada and I were very uncomfortable. We both felt intrusive 
and out of place ; and we both thought that Mrs. Pardiggle would 
have got on infinitely better, if she had not had such a mechanical 
way of taking possession of people. The children sulked and 
stared ; the family took no notice of us whatever, except when the 
young man made the dog bark : which he usually did when Mrs. 
Pardiggle was most emphatic. We both felt painfully sensible 
that between us and these people there was an iron barrier, which 
could not be removed by our new friend. By whom, or how, it 
could be removed, we did not know; but we knew that. Even 
what she read and said, seemed to us to be ill chosen for such 
auditors, if it had been imparted ever so modestly and with ever 
so much tact. As to the little book to which the man on the floor 
had referred, we acquired a knowledge of it afterwards ; and Mr. 
Jarndyce said he doubted if Robinson Crusoe could have read it, 
though he had had no other on his desolate island. 
■ We were much relieved, under these circumstances, when Mrs. 
Pardiggle left off". The man on the floor then turning his head 
round again, said morosely, 

"WeU ! You've done, have you?" 

" For to-day, I have, my friend. But I am never fatigued. I 
shall come to you again, in your regular order," returned Mrs. 
Pardiggle with demonstrative cheerfulness. 

" So long as you goes now," said he, folding his arms and shut- 
ting his eyes with an oath, " you may do wot you like ! " 

Mrs. Pardiggle accordingly rose, and made a little vortex in the 
confined room from which the pipe itself very narrowly escaped. 
Taking one of her young family in each hand, and telling the others 
to follow closely, and expressing her hope that the brickmaker and 
all his house would be improved when she saw them next, she 



102 BLEAK HOUSE. ^,.<' 

then proceeded to another cottage. I hope it is not unkind in me 
to say that she certainly did make, in this, as in everything else, 
a show that was not conciliatory, of doing charity by wholesale, 
and of dealing in it to a large extent. 

She supposed that we were following her ; but as soon as the 
space was left clear, we approached the woman sitting by the fire, 
to ask if the baby were ill. 

She only looked at it as it lay on her lap. We had observed 
before, that when she looked at it she covered her discoloured eye 
with her hand, as though she wished to separate any association 
with noise and violence and ill-treatment, from the poor little child. 

Ada, whose gentle heart was moved by its appearance, bent 
down to touch its little face. As she did so, I saw what happened 
and drew her back. The child died. 

" Esther ! " cried Ada, sinking on her knees beside it. " Look 
here ! Esther, my love, the little thing ! The suffering, quiet, 
pretty little thing ! I am so sorry for it. I am so sorry for the 
mother. I never saw a sight so pitiful as this before ! baby, 
baby ! " 

Such compassion, such gentleness, as that with which she bent 
down weeping, and put her hand upon the mother's, might have 
softened any mother's heart that ever beat. The woman at first 
gazed at her in astonishment, and then burst into tears. 

Presently I took the light burden from her lap; did what I 
could to make the baby's rest the prettier and gentler ; laid it on 
a shelf, and covered it with my own handkerchief We tried to 
comfort the mother, and we whispered to her what Our Saviour 
said of children. She answered nothing, but sat weeping — weep- 
ing very much. 

When I turned, I found that the young man had taken out the 
dog, and was standing at the door looking in upon us ; with dry 
eyes, but quiet. The girl was quiet too, and sat in a corner look- 
ing on the ground. The man had risen. He still smoked his pipe 
with an air of defiance, but he was silent. 

An ugly woman, very poorly clothed, hurried in while I was 
glancing at them, and coming straight up to the mother, said, 
" Jenny ! Jenny ! " The mother rose on being so addressed, and 
fell upon the woman's neck. 

She also had upon her face and arms the marks of iU-usage. 
She had no kind of grace about her, but the grace of sympathy; 
but when she condoled with the woman, and her own tears fell, 
she wanted no beauty. I say condoled, but her only words were 
" Jenny ! Jenny ! " All the rest was in the tone in which she said 
them. 



BLEAK HOUSE. 103 

I thought it very touching to see these two women, coarse and 
shabby and beaten, so united ; to see what they could be to one 
another ; to see how they felt for one another ; how the heart of 
each to each was softened by the hard trials of their lives. I think 
the best side of such people is almost hidden from us. What the 
poor are to the poor is little known, excepting to themselves and 
God. 

We felt it better to withdraw and leave them uninterrupted. 
We stole out quietly, and without notice from any one except the 
man. He was leaning against the wall near the door ; and finding 
that there was scarcely room for us to pass, went out before us. 
He seemed to want to hide that he did this on our account, but 
we perceived that he did, and thanked him. He made no answer. 

Ada was so full of grief all the way home, and Richard, whom 
we found at home, was so distressed to see her in tears (though 
he said to me when she was not present, how beautiful it was too !) 
that we arranged to return at night with some little comforts, and 
repeat our visit at the brickmaker's house. We said as little as 
we could to Mr. Jarndyce, but the wind changed directly. 

Richard accompanied us at night to the scene of our morning 
expedition. On our way there, we had to pass a noisy drinking- 
house, where a number of men were flocking about the door. 
Among them, and prominent in some dispute, was the father of 
the little child. At a short distance, we passed the young man 
and the dog, in congenial company. The sister was standing laugh- 
ing and talking with some other young women, at the corner of the 
row of cottages ; but she seemed ashamed, and turned away as we 
went by. 

We left our escort mthin sight of the brickmaker's dwelling, 
and proceeded by ourselves. When we came to the door, we found 
the woman who had brought such consolation with her, standing 
there, looking anxiously out. 

" It's you, young ladies, is it 1 " she said in a whisper. " I'm 
a watching for my master. My heart's in my mouth. If he was 
to catch me away from home, he'd pretty near murder me." 

" Do you mean your husband 1 " said I. 

" Yes, miss, my master. Jenny's asleep, quite worn out. She's 
scarcely had the child off her lap, poor thing, these seven days and 
nights, except when I've been able to take it for a minute or two." 

As she gave way for us, we went softly in, and put what we had 
brought, near the miserable bed on which the mother slept. No 
effort had been made to clean the room — it seemed in its nature 
almost hopeless of being clean ; but the small waxen form, from 
which so much solemnity diff"used itself, had been composed afresh, 



104 BLEAK HOUSE. 

and washed, and neatly dressed in some fragments of white Hnen ; 
and on my handkerchief, which still covered the poor baby, a little 
bunch of sweet herbs had been laid by the same rough scarred 
hands, so lightly, so tenderly ! 

" May Heaven reward you ! " we said to her. " You are a good 
woman." 

" Me, young ladies ? " she returned with surprise. " Hush ! 
Jenny, Jenny ! " 

The mother had moaned in her sleep, and moved. The sound 
of the familiar voice seemed to calm her again. She was quiet 
once more. 

How little I thought, when I raised my handkerchief to look 
upon the tiny sleeper underneath, and seemed to see a halo shine 
around the child through Ada's drooping hair as her pity bent her 
head — how little I thought in whose unquiet bosom that hand- 
kerchief would come to lie, after covering the motionless and peace- 
ful breast ! I only thought that perhaps the Angel of the child 
might not be all unconscious of the woman who replaced it with 
so compassionate a hand ; not all unconscious of her presently, 
when we had taken leave, and left her at the door, by turns look- 
ing, and listening in terror for herself, and saying in her old sooth- 
ing manner, " Jenny, Jenny ! " 



CHAPTER IX. 

SIGNS AND TOKENS. 

I don't know how if is, I seem to be always writing about my- 
self. I mean all the time to write about other people, and I try 
to think about myself as little as possible, and I am sure", when 
I find myself coming into the story again, I am really vexed 
and say, "Dear, dear, you tiresome little creature, I wish you 
wouldn't ! " but it is all of no use. I hope any one who may read 
what I write, will understand that if these pages contain a great 
deal about me, I can only suppose it must be because I have really 
something to do with them, and can't be kept out. 

My darling and I read together, and Avorked, and practised ; and 
found so much employment for our time, that the winter days flew 
by us like bright-winged birds. Generally in the afternoons, and 
always in the evenings, Richard gave us his company. Although 
he was one of the most restless creatures in the world, he certainly 
was very fond of our society. 



BLEAK HOUSE. 105 

He was very, very, veiy fond of Ada. I mean it, and I had 
better say it at once. I had never seen any young people falling 
in love before, but I found them out quite soon. I could not say 
so, of course, or show that I knew anything about it. On the 
contraiy, I was so demure, and used to seem so unconscious, that 
sometimes I considered within myself while I was sitting at work, 
whether I was not growing quite deceitful. 

But there was no help for it. All I had to do was to be quiet, 
and I was as quiet as a mouse. They were as quiet as mice, too, 
so far as any words were concerned; but the innocent manner in 
which they relied more and more upon me, as they took more and 
more to one another, was so charming, that I had great difficulty 
in not showing how it interested me. 

"Our dear little old woman is such a capital old woman," 
Richard would say, coming up to meet me in the garden early, 
with his pleasant laugh and perhaps the least tinge of a blush, 
" that I can't get on without her. Before I begin my harum- 
scarum day — grinding away at those books and instruments, and 
then galloping up hill and down dale, all the country round, 
like a highwayman — it does me so much good to come and have 
a steady walk with our comfortable friend, that here I am again ! " 

"You know, Dame Durden, dear," Ada would say at night, 
Avith her head upon my shoulder, and the firelight shining in her 
thoughtful eyes, " I don't want to talk when we come up-stairs 
here. Only to sit a little while, thinking, with your dear face for 
company ; and to hear the wind, and remember the poor sailors 
at sea " 

Ah ! Perhaps Richard was going to be a sailor. We had 
talked it over very often, now, and there was some talk of gratify- 
ing the inclination of his childhood for the sea. Mr. Jarndyce had 
written to a relation of the family, a great Sir Leicester Dedlock, 
for his interest in Richard's favour, generally ; and Sir Leicester 
had replied in a gracious manner, "that he would be happy to 
advance the prospects of the young gentleman if it should ever 
prove to be within his power, which was not at all probable — 
and that my Lady sent her compliments to the young gentleman 
(to whom she perfectly remembered that she was allied by remote 
consanguinity), and trusted that he would ever do his duty in any 
honourable profession to which he might devote himself." 

" So I apprehend it's pretty clear," said Richard to me, " that 
I shall have to work my own way. Never mind ! Plenty of 
people have had to do that before now, and have done it. I only 
wish I had the command of a clipping privateer, to begin with, 
and covdd carry off the Chancellor and keep him on short allow- 



106 BLEAIi HOUSE. 

ance until he gave judgment in our cause. He'd find himself 
growing thin, if he didn't look sharp ! " 

With a buoyancy and hoiiefulness and a gaiety that hardly ever 
flagged, Richard had a carelessness in his character that quite per- 
plexed me — principally because he mistook it, in such a very odd 
way, for prudence. It entered into all his calculations about 
money, in a singular manner, which I don't think I can better 
explain than by reverting for a moment to our loan to Mr. Skim- 
pole. 

Mr. Jaradyce had ascertained the amount, either from Mr. 
Skimpole himself or from Coavinses, and had placed the money 
in my hands with instructions to me to retain my own part of it 
and hand the rest to Richard. The number of little acts of 
thoughtless expenditure which Richard justified by the recovery 
of his ten pounds, and the number of times he talked to me as 
if he had saved or realised that amount, would form a sum in simple 
addition. 

"My prudent Mother Hubbard, why not?" he said to me, 
when lie wanted, without the least consideration, to bestow five 
pounds on the brickmaker. " I made ten pounds, clear, out of 
Coavinses' business." 

" How was that ? " said I. 

"Why, I got rid of ten pounds which I was quite content to 
get rid of, and never expected to see any more. You don't deny 
that 1 " 

" No," said I. 

" Very well ! Then I came into possession of ten pounds — " 
" The same ten pounds," I hinted. 

" That has nothing to do with it ! " returned Richard. " I 
have got ten pounds more than I expected to have, and conse- 
quently I can afford to spend it without being particular." 

In exactly the same way, when he was persuaded out of the 
sacrifice of these five pounds by being convinced that it would do 
no good, he carried that sum to his credit and drew upon it. 

" Let me see ! " he would say. " I saved five pounds out of 
the brickmaker's affair ; so, if I have a good rattle to London and 
back in a post-chaise, and put that down at four pounds, I shall 
have saved one. And it's a very good thing to save one, let me 
tell you : a penny saved, is a penny got ! " 

I believe Richard's was as frank and generous a nature as there 
possibly can be. He was ardent and brave, and, in the midst of 
all bis wild restlessness, was so gentle, that I knew him like a 
brother in a few weeks. His gentleness was natural to him, and 
would have shown itself abundantly, even without Ada's influence ; 



BLEAK HOUSE. 107 

but, with it, he became one of the most winniug of companions, 
always so ready to be interested, and always so happy, sanguine, 
and light-hearted. I am sure that I, sitting with them, and walk- 
ing with them, and talking with them, and noticing from day to 
day how they went on, falling deeper and deeper in love, and say- 
ing nothing about it, and each shyly thinking that this love was 
the greatest of secrets, perhaps not yet suspected even by the 
other — I am sure that I was scarcely less enchanted than they 
were, and scarcely less pleased with the pretty dream. 

We were going on in this way, when one morning at breakfast 
Mr. Jarndyce received a letter, and looking at the superscription 
said, " From Boythorn ? Aye, aye ! " and opened and read it with 
evident pleasure, announcing to us, in a parenthesis, when he was 
about half-way through, that Boythorn was "coming down" on a 
visit. Now, who was Boythorn? we all thought. And I dare 
say we all thought, too — I am sure I did, for one — would Boy- 
thorn at all interfere with what was going forward 1 

"I went to school with this fellow, Lawrence Boythorn," said 
Mr. Jarndyce, tapping the letter as he laid it on the table, " more 
than five-and-forty years ago. He was then the most impetuous 
boy in the world, and he is now the most impetuous man. He 
was then the loudest boy in the world, and he is now the loudest 
man. He was then the heartiest and sturdiest boy in the world, 
and he is now the heartiest and sturdiest man. He is a tremen- 
dous fellow." 
— -"In stature, sir?" asked Richard. 

" Pretty well. Rick, in that respect," said Mr. Jarndyce ; "being 
some ten years older than I, and a couple of inches taller, with his 
head thrown back like an old soldier, his stalwart chest squared, 
his hands like a clean blacksmith's, and his lungs ! — there's no 
simile for his lungs. Talking, laughing, or snoring, they make the 
beams of the house shake." 

As Mr. Jarndyce sat enjoying the image of his friend Boythorn, 
we observed the favourable omen that there was not the least 
indication of any change in the wind. 

" But it's the inside of the man, the warm heart of the man, 
the passion of the man, the fresh blood of the man. Rick — and 
Ada, and little Cobweb too, for you are all interested in a visitor ! 
— that I speak of," he pursued. " His language is as sounding as 
his voice. He is always in extremes ; perpetually in the superla- 
tive degree. In his condemnation he is all ferocity. You might 
suppose him to be an Ogre, from what he says; and I believe he 
has the reputation of one with some people. There ! I tell you no 
more of him beforehand. You must not be surprised to see him 



108 BLEAK HOUSE, 

take me under his protection ; for he has never forgotten that I 
was a low boy at school, and that our friendship began in his 
knocking two of my head tyrant's teeth out (he says six) before 
breakfast. Boythorn and his man," to me, "will be here this 
afternoon, my dear." 

I took care that the necessary preparations were made for Mr. 
Boythorn's reception, and we looked forward to his arrival with 
some curiosity. The afternoon wore away, however, and he did 
not appear. The dinner-hour arrived, and still he did not appear. 
The dinner was put back an hour, and we were sitting round the 
fire with no light but the blaze, when the hall-door suddenly burst 
open, and the hall resounded with these words, uttered with the 
greatest vehemence and in a stentorian tone : 

"We have been misdirected, Jarndyce, by a most abandoned 
ruffian, who told us to take the turning to the right instead of to 
the left. He is the most intolerable scoundrel on the face of the 
earth. His father must have been a most consummate villain, 
ever to have had such a son. I would have that fellow shot with- 
out the least remorse ! " 

" Did he do it on purpose ? " Mr. Jarndyce inquired. 

" I have not the slightest doubt that the scoundrel has passed 
his whole existence in misdirecting travellers ! " returned the other. 
"By my soul, I thought him the worst-looking dog I had ever 
beheld, when he was telling me to take the turning to the right. 
And yet I stood before that fellow face to face, and didn't knock 
his brains out ! " 

" Teeth, you mean 1 " said Mr. Jarndyce. 

" Ha, ha, ha ! " laughed Mr. Lawrence Boythorn, really making 
the whole house vibrate. " What, you have not forgotten it yet ! 
Ha, ha, ha ! — And that was another most consummate vagabond ! 
By my soul, the countenance of that fellow, when he was a boy, 
was the blackest image of perfidy, cowardice, and cruelty ever set 
up as a scarecrow in a field of scoundrels. If I were to meet that 
most unparalleled despot in the streets to-morrow, I would fell him 
like a rotten tree ! " 

" I have no doubt of it," said Mr. Jarndyce. " Now, will you 
come up-stairs 1 " 

"By my soul, Jarndyce," returned his guest, who seemed to 
refer to his watch, " if you had been married, I would have turned 
back at the garden-gate, and gone away to the remotest summits 
of the Himalaya Mountains, sooner than I would have presented 
myself at this unseasonable hour." 

" Not quite so far, I hope 1 " said Mr. Jarndyce. 

" By my life and honour, yes ! " cried the visitor, " I wouldn't 



BLEAK HOUSE. 109 

be giiilty of the audacious insolence of keeping a lady of the house 
waiting all tliis time, for any earthly consideration. I would infi- 
nitely rather destroy myself — infinitely rather ! " 

Talking thus, they went up-stairs ; and presently we heard him 
in his bed-room thundering " Ha, ha, ha ! " and again " Ha, ha, ha ! " 
until the flattest echo in the neighbourhood seemed to catch the 
contagion, and to laugh as enjoy ingly as he did, or as we did when 
we heard him laugh. 

We all conceived a prepossession in his favour ; for there was 
a sterling quality in this laugh, and in his vigorous healthy 
voice, and in the roundness and fulness with which he uttered 
every Avord he spoke, and in the very fury of his superlatives, 
which seemed to go off like blank cannons and hurt nothing. But 
we were hardly prepared to have it so confirmed by his appearance, 
when Mr. Jarndyce presented him. He was not only a very hand- 
some old gentleman — upright and stalwart as he had been described 
to us — with a massive grey head, a fine composure of face when 
silent, a figure that might have become corpulent but for his being 
so continually in earnest that he gave it no rest, and a chin that 
might have subsided into a double chin but for the vehement 
emphasis in which it was constantly required to assist ; but he was 
such a true gentleman in his manner, so chivalrously polite, his face 
was lighted by a smile of so much sweetness and tenderness, and it 
seemed so plain that he had nothing to hide, but showed himself 
exactly as he was — incapable (as Richard said) of anything on a 
limited scale, and firing away with those blank great gims, because 
he carried no small arms whatever — that really I could not help 
looking at him with equal pleasure as he sat at dinner, whether he 
smilingly conversed with Ada and me, or was led by Mr. Jarndyce 
into some great volley of superlatives, or threw up his head like a 
blood-hound, and gave out that tremendous Ha, ha, ha ! 

" You have brought your bird with you, I suppose 1 " said 
Mr. Jarndyce. 

" By Heaven, he is the most astonishing bird in Europe ! " 
replied the other. " He is the most wonderful creature ! I 
wouldn't take ten thousand guineas for that bird. I have left an 
annuity for his sole support, in case he should outlive me. He is, 
in sense and attachment, a phenomenon. And his father before 
him was one of the most astonishing birds that ever lived ! " 

The subject of this laudation was a very little canary, who was 
so tame that he was brought down by Mr. Boythorn's man, on his 
forefinger, and, after taking a gentle flight round the room, alighted 
on his master's head. To hear Mr. Boythorn presently expressing 
the most implacable and passionate sentiments, with this fragile 



no BLEAK HOUSE. 

mite of a creature quietly pcrclied on his forehead, was to have a 
good illustration of his character, I thought. 

" By my soul, Jarndyce," he said, very gently holding up a bit 
of bread to the canaiy to peck at, " if I were in your place, I would 
seize every Master in Chancery by the throat to-morrow morning, 
and shake him until his money rolled out of his pockets, and his 
bones rattled in his skin. I would have a settlement out of some- 
body, by fair means or by foul. If you would empower me to do 
it, I would do it for you with the greatest satisfaction ! " (All 
this time, the very small canary was eating out of his hand.) 

" I thank you, Lawrence, but the suit is hardly at such a point 
at present," returned Mr. Jarndyce, laughing, " that it would be 
greatly advanced, even by the legal process of shaking the Bench 
and the whole Bar." 

" There never was such an infernal cauldron as that Chancery, 
on the face of the earth ! " said Mr. Boythorn. " Nothing but a 
mine below it on a busy day in term time, with all its records, 
rules, and precedents collected in it, and every functionary belong- 
ing to it also, high and low, upward and downward, from its son 
the Accountant-General to its father the Devil, and the whole blown 
to atoms with ten thousand hundred-weight of gunpowder, would 
reform it in the least ! " 

It was impossible not to laugh at the energetic gravity with 
which he recommended this strong measure of reform. When we 
laughed, he threw up his head, and shook his broad chest, and 
again the whole country seemed to echo to his Ha, ha, ha ! It 
had not the least effect in disturbing the bird, whose sense of 
security was complete ; and who hopped about the table with its 
quick head now on this side and now on that, turning its bright 
sudden eye on its master, as if he were no more than another 
bird. 

" But how do you and your neighbour get on about the disputed 
right of way ? " said Mr. Jarndyce. " You are not free from the 
toils of the law yourself." 

" The fellow has brought actions against me for trespass, and I 
have brought actions against him for trespass," returned Mr. Boy- 
thorn. " By Heaven, he is the proudest fellow breathing. It is 
morally impossible that his name can be Sir Leicester. It must 
be Sir Lucifer." 

" Complimentary to our distant relation ! " said my Guardian 
laughingly, to Ada and Richard. 

"I would beg Miss Clare's pardon and Mr. Carstone's pardon," 
resumed our visitor, " if I were not reassured by seeing in the fair 
face of the lady, and the smile of the gentleman, that it is quite 



BLEAK HOUSE. Ill 

unnecessary, and that they keep their distant relation at a comfort- 
able distance." 

" Or he keeps us," suggested Richard. 

" By my soul ! " exclaimed Mr. Boy thorn, suddenly firing another 
volley, "that fellow is, and his father was, and his grandfather 
was, the most stiff-necked, arrogant, imbecile, pig-headed numskull, 
ever, by some inexplicable mistake of Nature, born in any station 
of life but a walking-stick's ! The whole of that family are the 
mos'; solemnly conceited and consummate blockheads ! — But it's 
no matter ; he should not shut up my path if he were fifty baro- 
nets melted into one, and living in a hundred Chesuey Wolds, one 
within another, like the ivory balls in a Chinese carving. The 
fellow, by his agent, or secretary, or somebody, writes to me, ' Sir 
Leicester Dedlock, Baronet, presents his compliments to Mr. Law- 
rence Boythorn, and has to call his attention to the fact that the 
green pathway by the old parsonage-house, now the property of 
Mr. Lawrence Boythorn, is Sir Leicester's right of way, being in 
fact a portion of the park of Chesney Wold ; and that Sir Leicester 
finds it convenient to close up the same.' I write to the fellow, 
' Mr. Lawrence Boythorn presents his compliments to Sir Leicester 
Dedlock, Baronet, and has to call his attention to the fact that he 
totally denies the whole of Sir Leicester Dedlock's positions on 
every pcissible subject, and has to add, in reference to closing up 
the pathway, that he will be glad to see the man who may under- 
take to do it.' The fellow sends a most abandoned villain with 
one eye, to construct a gateway. I play upon that execrable scoun- 
drel with a fire-engine, until the breath is nearly driven out of his 
body. The fellow erects a gate in the night. I chop it down and 
burn it in the morning. He sends his myrmidons to come over 
the fence, and pass and repass. I catch them in humane man- 
traps, fire split peas at their legs, play upon them with the engine 
— -resolve to free mankind from the insupportable burden of the 
existence of those lurking ruffians. He brings actions for trespass ; 
I bring actions for trespass. He brings actions for assault and 
battery ; I defend them, and continue to assault and batter. Ha, 
ha, ha ! " 

To hear him say all this with unimaginable energy, one might 
have thought him the angriest of mankind. To see him, at the 
very same time, looking at the bird now perched upon his thumb, 
and softly smoothing its feathers with his forefinger, one might 
have thought him the gentlest. To hear him laugh, and see the 
broad good-nature of his face then, one might have supposed that 
he had not a care in the world, or a dispute, or a dislike, but that 
his whole existence was a summer joke. 



112 BLEAK HOUSE. 

" No, no," he said, " no closing up of my paths, by any Dedlock ! 
Though I wilhngly confess," here he softened in a moment, "that 
Lady Dedlock is the most accomplished lady in the world, to whom 
I would do any homage that a plain gentleman, and no baronet 
with a head seven hundred years thick, may. A man who joined 
his regiment at twenty, and, within a week, challenged the most 
imperious and presumptuous coxcomb of a commanding officer chat 
ever drew the breath of life through a tight waist — and got broke 
for it — is not the man to be walked over, by all the Sir Lucifers, 
dead or alive, locked or unlocked. Ha, ha, ha ! " 

" Nor the man to allow his junior to be walked over, either ? " 
said my Guardian. 

" Most assuredly not ! " said Mr. Boythorn, clapping him du the 
shoulder with an air of protection, that had something serious in 
it, though he laughed. " He will stand by the low boy, always. 
Jarndyce, you may rely upon him ! But, speaking of this trespass 
— with apologies to Miss Clare and Miss Summerson for the length 
at which I have pursued so dry a subject — is there nothing for 
me from your men, Kenge and Carboy 1 " I 

" I think not, Esther 1 " said Mr. Jarndyce. ' 

" Nothing, Guardian." 

" Much obliged ! ", said Mr. Boythorn. " Had no need to ask, 
after even my slight experience of Miss Summerson's forethought 
for every one about her." (They all encouraged me ; they were 
determined to do it.) "I inquired because, coming from Lincoln- 
shire, I of course have not yet been in town, and I thought some 
letters might have been sent down here. I dare say they will 
report progress to-morrow morning." 

I saw him so often, in the course of the evening, which passed 
very pleasantly, contemplate Richard and Ada with an interest and 
a satisfaction that made his fine face remarkably agreeable as he 
sat at a little distance from the piano listening to the music — and 
he had small occasion to tell us that he was passionately fond of 
music, for his face showed it — that I asked my Guardian, as we 
sat at the backgammon board, whether Mr. Boythorn had ever been 
married. 

" No," said he. " No." 

" But he meant to be ? " said I. 

" How did you find that out ? " he returned, with a smile. 

"Why, Guardian," I explained, not without reddening a little 
at hazarding what was in my thoughts, " there is something so 
tender in his manner, after all, and he is so very courtly and gentle 
to us, and — " 

Mr. Jarndyce directed his eyes to where he was sitting, as I 
have just described him. 



1 



BLEAK HOUSE. JL13 

I said no more. 

" You are right, little woman," he answered. " He was all but 
married, once. Long ago. And once." 

" Did the lady die ? " 

"No — but she died to him. That time has had its influence 
on all his later life. Would you suppose him to have a head and 
a heart full of romance yet 1 " 

" I think, Guardian, I might have supposed so. But it is easy 
to say that, Avhen you have told me so." 

" He has never since been what he might have been," said Mr. 
Jarndyce, " and now you see him in his age with no one near him 
but his servant, and his little yellow friend. — It's your throw, 
my dear ! " 

I felt, from my Guardian's manner, that beyond this point I 
could not pursue the subject without changing the wind. I there- 
fore forbore to ask any further questions. I was interested, but 
not curious. I thought a little while about this old love story in 
the night, when I was awakened by Mr. Boythorn's lusty snoring ; 
and I tried to do that very diflicult thing — imagine old people 
young again, and invested with the graces of youth. But I fell 
asleep before I had succeeded, and dreamed of the days when I 
lived in my godmother's house. I am not sufficiently acquainted 
with such subjects, to know whether it is at all remarkable that I 
almost always dreamed of that period of my life. 

With the morning, there came a letter from Messrs. Kenge and 
Carboy to Mr. Boythorn, informing him that one of their clerks 
would wait upon him at noon. As it was the day of the week on 
which I paid the bills, and added up my books, and made all the 
household affairs as compact as possible, I remained at home while 
Mr. Jarndyce, Ada, and Richard, took advantage of a very fine 
day to make a little excursion. Mr. Boythoni was to wait for 
Kenge and Carboy's clerk, and then was to go on foot to meet 
them on their return. 

Well ! I was full of business, examining tradesmen's books, add- 
ing up columns, paying money, filing receipts, and I dare say 
making a great bustle about it, when Mr. Guppy was annouhced 
and shown in. I had had some idea that the clerk who was to be 
sent down, might be the young gentleman who had met me at the 
coach-office ; and I was glad to see him, because he was associated 
with my present happiness. 

I scarcely knew him again, he was so uncommonly smart. He 
had an entirely new suit of glossy clothes on, a shining hat, lilac- 
kid gloves, a neckerchief of a variety of colours, a large hot-house 
flower in his button-hole, and a thick gold ring on his little finger. 



114 BLEAK HOUSE. 

Besides which, he quite scented the dining-room with bear's-grease 
and other perfumery. He looked at me with an attention that 
quite confused me, when I begged him to take a seat until the 
servant should return ; and as he sat there, crossing and uncrossing 
his legs in a corner, and I asked him if he had had a pleasant 
ride, and hoped that Mr. Kenge was well, I never looked at him, 
but I found him looking at me, in the same scrutinising and 
curious way. 

When the request was brought to him that he would go up- 
stairs to Mr. Boythorn's room, I mentioned that he would find 
lunch prepared for him when he came down, of which Mr. Jarn- 
dyce hoped he would partake. He said with some embarrassment, 
holding the handle of the door, " Shall I have the honour of find- 
ing you here, miss ? " I replied yes, I should be there ; and he 
went out with a bow and another look. 

I thought him only awkward and shy, for he was evidently 
much embarrassed ; and I fancied that the best thing I could do, 
would be to wait until I saw that he had everything he wanted, 
and then to leave him to himself The lunch was soon brought, 
but it remained for some time on the table. The interview with 
Mr. Boythorn was a long one — and a stormy one too, I should 
think ; for, although his room was at some distance, I heard his| 
loud voice rising eveiy now and then like a high wind, and evi- 
dently blowing perfect broadsides of denunciation. 

At last Mr. Guppy came back, looking something the worse foi 
the conference. "My eye, miss," he said in a low voice, "he's s 
Tartar ! " 

" Pray take some refreshment, sir," said I. 

Mr. Guppy sat down at the table, and began nervously sharpen- 
ing the carving-knife On the carving-fork ; still looking at me (as 1 
felt quite sure without looking at him), in the same unusual man- 
ner. The sharpening lasted so long that at last I felt a kind of 
obligation on me to raise my eyes, in order that I might breai 
the spell under which he seemed to labour, of not being able to 
leave off. 

He immediately looked at the dish, and began to carve. 

" What will you take yourself, miss ? You'll take a morsel o: 
something 1 " 

"No, thank you," said I. 

" Shan't I give you a piece of anything at all, miss *? " said M: 
Guppy, hurriedly drinking off a glass of wine. 

" Nothing, thank you," said I. "I have only waited to see 
that you have everything you want. Is there anything I can 
order for you 1 " 



: 



BLEAK HOUSE. 115 

" No, I am much obliged to you, miss, I'm sure. I've every- 
thing tliat I can require to make me comfortable — at least I — 
not comfortable — I'm never that : " he drank off two more glasses 
of wine, one after another. 

I thought I had better go. 

" I beg your pardon, miss ! " said Mr. Guppy, rising, when he 
saw me rise. " But would you allow me the favour of a minute's 
private conversation 1 " 

Not knowing what to say, I sat down again. 

" What follows is without i^rejudice, miss 1 " said Mr. Gupjjy, 
anxiously bringing a chair towards my table. 

" I don't understand what you mean," said I, wondering. 

" It's one of our law terms, miss. You won't make any use of 
it to my detriment, at Kenge and Carboy's, or elsewhere. If our 
conversation shouldn't lead to anything, I am to be as I was, and 
am not to be prejudiced in my situation or worldly prospects. In 
short, it's in total confidence." 

" I am at a loss, sir," said I, " to imagine what you can have to 
communicate in total confidence to me, whom you have never seen 
but once ; but I should be very sorry to do you any injury." 

"Thank you, miss. I'm sure of it — that's quite sufficient." 
All this time Mr. Guppy was either planing his forehead with his 
liandkerchief, or tightly nibbing the palm of his left hand with the 
palm of his right. " If you would excuse my taking another glass 
of wine, miss, I think it might assist me in getting on, without a 
continual choke that cannot fail to be mutually unpleasant." 

He did so, and came back again. I took the opportunity of 
moving well behind my table. 

" You wouldn't allow me to offer you one, would you, miss ? " 
said Mr. Gappy, apparently refreshed. 

" Not any," said I. 

" Not half a glass 1 " said Mr. Guppy ; " quarter ? No ! Then, 
to proceed. My present salary, Miss Summerson, at Kenge and 
Carboy's, is two pound a week. When I first had the happiness 
of looking upon you, it was one-fifteen, and had stood at that figure 
for a lengthened period. A rise of five has since taken place, and 
a further rise of five is guaranteed at the expiration of a term not 
exceeding twelve months from the present date. My mother has 
a little property, which takes the form of a small life annuity ; 
upon which she lives in an independent though unassuming man- 
ner, in the Old Street Road. She is eminently calculated for a 
motlier-in-law. She never interferes, is all for peace, and her dis- 
position easy. She has her failings — as who has not 1 — but I 
never knew her do it when company was present ; at which time 



116 BLEAK HOUSE. 



you may freely trust her with wines, spirits, or malt liquors. My' 
own abode is lodgings at Penton Place, Pentonville. It is lowly, 
but airy, open at the back, and considered one of the 'ealthiest 
outlets. Miss Summerson ! In the mildest language, I adore you. 
Would you be so kind as to allow me (as I may say) to file a dec- 
laration — to make an offer ! " 

Mr. Guppy went down on his knees. I was well behind my 
table, and not much frightened. I said, " Get up from that ridicu- 
lous position immediately, sir, or you will oblige me to break my 
implied promise and ring the bell ! " 

" Hear me out, miss ! " said Mr. Guppy, folding his hands. 

" I cannot consent to hear another word, sir," I returned, "unless 
you get up from the carpet directly, and go and sit down at the 
table, as you ought to do if you have any sense at all." 

He looked piteously, but slowly rose and did so. 

" Yet what a mockery it is, miss," he said, with his hand upon 
his heart, and shaking his head at me in a melancholy manner over 
the tray, "to be stationed behind food at such a moment. The 
soul recoils from food at such a moment, miss." 

"I beg you to conclude," said I ; "you have asked me to hear 
you out, and I beg you to conclude." 

"I will, miss," said Mr. Guppy. "As I love and honour, so 
likewise I obey. Would that I could make Thee the subject of 
that vow, before the shrine ! " 

"That is quite impossible," said I, "and entirely out of the 
question." 

"I am aware," said Mr. Guppy, leaning forward over the tray, 
and regarding me, as I again strangely felt, though my eyes were 
not directed to him, with his late intent look, "I am aware that in 
a worldly point of view, according to all appearances, my off"er is a 
poor one. But, Miss Summerson ! Angel ! — No, don't ring ! — I 
have been brought up in a sharp school, and am accustomed to a 
variety of general practice. Though a young man, I have ferreted 
out evidence, got up cases, and seen lots of life. Blest with your 
hand, what means might I not find of advancing your interests, 
and pushing your fortunes ! What might I not get to know, 
nearly concerning you ? I know nothing now, certainly ; but what 
might I not, if I had your confidence, and you set me on 1 " 

I told him that he addressed my interest, or what he supposed 
to be my interest, quite as unsuccessfully as he addressed my incli- 
nation ; and he would now understand that I requested him, if he 
pleased, to go away immediately. 

"Cruel miss," said Mr. Guppy, "hear but another word! I 
think you must have seen that I was struck with those charms, on 
the day when I waited at the Whytorseller. I think you must 



1 




IN RE GUPPY. EXTRAOEDINARY PROCEEDINGS. 



118 BLEAK HOUSE. 

have remarked that I could not forbear a tribute to those charms 
when I put up the steps of the 'ackney-coach. It was a feeble 
tribute to Thee, but it was well meant. Thy image has ever since 
been fixed in my breast. I have walked up and down, of an even- 
ing, opposite Jellyby's house, only to look upon the bricks that 
once contained Thee. This out of to-day, quite an unnecessary out 
so far as the attendance, which was its pretended object, went, was 
planned by me alone for Thee alone. If I speak of interest, it is 
only to recommend myself and my respectful wretchedness. Love 
was before it, and is before it." 

" I should be pained, Mr. Guppy," said I, rising and putting my 
hand upon the bell-rope, " to do you, or any one who was sincere, 
the injustice of slighting any honest feeling, however disagreeably 
expressed. If you have really meant to give me a proof of your 
good opinion, though ill-timed and misplaced, I feel that I ought to 
thank you. I have very little reason to be proud, and I am not 
proud. I hope," I think I added, without veiy well kno^ving what 
I said, " that you will now go away as if you had never been so 
exceedingly foolish, and attend to Messrs. Kenge and Carboy's 
business." 

" Half a minute, miss ! " cried Mr. Guppy, checking me as I was 
about to ring. " This has been without prejudice ? " 

" I will never mention it," said I, "unless you should give me 
future occasion to do so." 

" A quarter of a minute, miss ! In case you should think better 
— -at any time, however distant, thafs no consequence, for my 
feelings can never alter — of anything I have said, particularly 
what might I not do — Mr. William Guppy, eighty-seven, Penton 
Place, or, if removed, or dead (of blighted hopes or anything of that 
sort), care of Mrs. Guppy, three hundred and two. Old Street Road, 
will be sufficient." 

I rang the bell, the servant came, and Mr. Guppy, laying his 
written card upon the table, and making a dejected bow, departed. 
Raising my eyes as he went out, I once more saw him looking at 
me after he had passed the door. 

I sat there for another hour or more, finishing my books and pay- 
ments, and getting through jolenty of business. Then, I arranged 
my desk, and put everything away, and was so composed and cheer- 
ful that I thought I had quite dismissed this unexpected incident. 
But, when I went up-stairs to my own room, I surprised myself by 
beginning to laugh about it, and then surprised myself still more by 
beginning to cry about it. In short, I was in a flutter for a little 
while ; and felt as if an old chord had been more coarsely touched 
than it ever had been since the days of the dear old doll, long buried 
in the garden. 



BLEAK HOUSE. 119 

CHAPTER X. 

THE LAW-WRITER. 

On the eastern borders of Chancery Lane, that is to say, more 
particularly in Cook's Court, Cursitor Street, Mr. Snagsby, Law- 
Stationer, pursues his lawful calling. In the shade of Cook's Court, 
at most times a shady place, Mr. Snagsby has dealt in all sorts of 
blank forms of legal process ; in skins and rolls of parchment ; in 
paper — foolscap, brief, draft, brown, white, whitey-brown, and 
blotting ; in stamps ; in office- quills, pens, ink, India-inibber, pounce, 
pins, pencils, sealing-wax, and wafers ; in red tape and green ferret ; 
in pocket-books, almanacks, diaries, and law lists ; in string boxes, 
rulers, inkstands — glass and leaden, pen-knives, scissors, bodkins, 
and other small office-cutlery ; in short, in articles too numerous to 
mention ; ever since he was out of his time, and went into partner- 
ship with Peffer. On that occasion. Cook's Court was in a manner 
revolutionised by the new inscription in fresh paint, Peffer and 
Snagsby, displacing the time-honoured and not easily to be deci- 
phered legend, Peffer, only. For smoke, which is the London 
ivy, had so wreathed itself round Peffer's name, and clung to his 
dwelling-place, that the affectionate parasite quite overpowered the 
parent tree. 

Peffer is never seen in Cook's Court now. He is not expected 
there, for he has been recumbent this quarter of a century in the 
churchyard of St. Andrew's, Holborn, with the waggons and hack- 
ney-coaches roaring past him, all the day and half the night, like 
one great dragon. If he ever steal forth when the dragon is at 
rest, to air himself again in Cook's Court, imtil admonished to 
return by the crowing of the sanguine cock in the cellar at the little 
dairy in Cursitor Street, whose ideas of daylight it would be curious 
to ascertain, since he knows from his personal observation next to 
nothing about it — if Peffer ever do revisit the pale glimpses of 
Cook's Court, which no law-stationer in the trade can possibly deny, 
he comes invisibly, and no one is the worse or wiser. 

In his lifetime, and likewise in the period of Snagsby's " time " 
of seven long years, there dwelt with Peffer, in the same law- 
stationering premises, a niece — a short, shrewd niece, something 
too violently compressed about the waist, and with a sharp nose 
like a sharp autumn evening, inclining to be frosty towards the end. 
The Cook's-Courtiers had a rumour flying among them, that the 
mother of this niece did, in her daughter's childhood, moved by too 
jealous a solicitude that her figure should approach perfection, lace 
her up every morning with her maternal foot against the bed-post 



4 



120 BLEAK HOUSE. 

for a stronger hold and purchase ; and further, that she exhibited 
internally pints of vinegar and lemon-juice : which acids, they held, 
had mounted to the nose and temper of the patient. With which- 
soever of the many tongues of Rumour this frothy report originated, 
it either never reached, or never influenced, the ears of young 
Snagsby ; who, having wooed and won its fair subject on his arrival 
at man's estate, entered into two partnerships at once. So now, in 
Cook's Court, Cursitor Street, Mr. Snagsby and the niece are one ; 
and the niece still cherishes her figure — which, however tastes may 
difter, is unquestionably so far precious, that there is mighty little 
of it. 

Mr. and Mrs. Snagsby are not only one bone and one flesh, bu 
to the neighbours' thinking, one voice too. That voice, appearing 
to proceed from Mrs. Snagsby alone, is heard in Cook's Court veiy 
often. Mr. Snagsby, otherwise than as he finds expression through 
these dulcet tones, is rarely heard. He is a mild, bald, timid man, 
with a shining head, and a scrubby clump of black hair sticking 
out at the back. He tends to meekness and obesity. As he 
stands at his door in Cook's Court, in his grey shop-coat and black 
calico sleeves, looking up at the clouds ; or stands behind a desk in 
his dark shop, with a heavy flat ruler, snipping and slicing at sheep- 
skin, in company with his two 'prentices ; he is emphatically a re- 
tiring and unassuming man. From beneath his feet, at such times, 
as from a shrill ghost unquiet in its grave, there frequently arise 
complainings and lamentations in the voice already mentioned ; and 
haply, on some occasions, when these reach a sharper pitch than 
usual, Mr. Snagsby mentions to the 'prentices, " I think my little 
woman is a giving it to Guster ! " 

This proper name, so used by Mr. Snagsby, has before no' 
sharpened the wit of the Cook's-Courtiers to remark that it ought 
to be the name of Mrs. Snagsby ; seeing that she might with great 
force and expression be termed a Guster, in compliment to h^ 
stormy character. It is, however, the possession, and the only poi 
session, except fifty shillings per annum and a very small box in- 
difliierently filled with clothing, of a lean young woman from a 
workhouse (by some supposed to have been christened Augusta) ; 
who, although she was farmed or contracted for, during her grow- 
ing time, by an amiable benefactor of his species resident at Tooting, 
and cannot fail to have been developed under the most favourable 
circumstances, " has fits " — which the parish can't account for. 

Guster, really aged three or four and twenty, but looking a round 
ten years older, goes cheap with this unaccountable drawback of 
fits ; and is so apprehensive of being returned on the hands of her j 
patron saint, that except when she is found with her head in the 



>l 



BLEAK HOUSE. 121 

pail, or the sink, or the copper, or the dinner, or anything else that 
happens to be near her at the time of her seizure, she is always at 
work. She is a satisfaction to the parents and guardians of the 
'prentices, who feel that there is little danger of her inspiring ten- 
der emotions in the breast of youth ; she is a satisfaction to Mrs. 
Snagsby, who can always find fault with her ; she is a satisfaction 
to Mr. Snagsby, who thinks it a charity to keep her. The Law- 
stationer's establishment is, in Guster's eyes, a Temple of plenty and 
splendour. She believes the little drawing-room up-stairs, always 
kept, as one may say, with its hair in papers and its pinafore on, 
to be the most elegant apartment in Christendom. The view it 
commands of Cook's Court at one end (not to mention a squint 
, into Cursitor Street), and of Coavinses' the sheriff's officer's back- 
yard at the other, she regards as a prospect of unequalled beauty. 
The portraits it displays in oil — and plenty of it too — of Mr. 
Snagsby looking at Mrs. Snagsby, and of Mrs. Snagsby looking at 
, Mr. Snagsby, are in her eyes as achievements of Raphael or Titian. 
, Guster has some recompenses for her many privations. 

Mr. Snagsby refers everything not in the practical mysteries of 
I the business to Mrs. Snagsby. She manages the money, reproaches 
the Tax-gatherers, appoints the times and places of devotion on 
Sundays, licenses Mr. Snagsby's entertainments, and acknowledges 
no responsibility as to what she thinks fit to provide for dinner ; 
insomuch that she is the high standard of comparison among the 
neighbouring wives, a long way down Chancery Lane on both sides, 
I and even out in Holborn, who, in any domestic passages of arms, 
habitually call upon their husbands to look at the difi^erence between 
their (the wives') position and Mrs. Snagsby's, and their (the hus- 
bands') behaviour and Mr. Snagsby's. Rumour, always flying, bat- 
like, about Cook's Court, and skimming in and out at everybody's 
[Windows, does say that Mrs. Snagsby is jealous and inquisitive ; 
■and that Mr. Snagsby is sometimes worried out of house and home, 
.and that if he had the spirit of a mouse he wouldn't stand it. It 
lis even observed, that the wives who quote him to their self-willed 
iiusbands as a shining example, in reality look down upon him ; 
• ind that nobody does so with greater superciliousness than one 
j.oarticular lady, whose lord is more than suspected of laying his 
1 ambrella on her as an instrument of correction. But these vague 
^ivhisperings may arise from Mr. Snagsby's being, in his way, rather 
I meditative and poetical man ; loving to walk in Staple Inn in the 
summer time, and to observe how countrified the sparrows and the 
eaves are ; also to lounge about the Rolls Yard of a Sunday after- 
loon, and to remark (if in good spirits) that there were old times 
^mce, and that you'd find a stone colRn or two, now, under that 



122 BLEAK HOUSE. 

chapel, he'll be bound, if you was to dig for it. He solaces his 
imagination, too, by thinking of the many Chancellors and Vices, 
and Masters of the Rolls, who are deceased ; and he gets such a 
flavour of the country out of telling the two 'prentices how he has 
heard say that a brook " as clear as crystial " once ran right down 
the middle of Holborn, when Turnstile really was a turnstile, lead- 
ing slap away into the meadows — gets such a flavour of the 
country out of this, that he never wants to go there. 

The day is closing in and the gas is lighted, but is not yet fully 
effective, for it is not quite dark. Mr. Snagsby standing at his 
shop-door looking up at the clouds, sees a crow, who is out late, 
skim westward over the leaden slice of sky belonging to Cook's 
Court. The crow flies straight across Chancery Lane and Lincoln's 
Inn Garden, into Lincoln's Inn Fields. 

Here, in a large house, formerly a house of state, lives Mr. 
Tulkinghorn. It is let off" in sets of chambers now ; and in those 
shrunken fragments of its greatness, lawyers lie like maggots in 
nuts. But its roomy staircases, passages, and antechambers still 
remain ; and even its painted ceilings, where Allegory, in Roman 
helmet and celestial linen, sprawls among balustrades and pillars, 
flowers, clouds, and big-legged boys, and makes the head ache — 
as would seem to be Allegory's object always, more or less. Here, 
among his many boxes labelled with transcendent names, lives Mr. 
Tulkinghorn, when not speechlessly at home in country-houses 
where the great ones of the earth are bored to death. Here he is 
to-day, quiet at his table. An Oyster of the old school, whom 
nobody can open. 

Like as he is to look at, so is his apartment in the dusk of the 
present afternoon. Rusty, out of date, withdrawing from atten- 
tion, able to afford it. Heavy broad-backed old-fashioned mahog- 
any and horsehair chairs, not easily lifted, obsolete tables with 
spindle-legs and dusty baize covers, presentation prints of the hold- 
ers of great titles in the last generation, or the last but one, environ 
him. A thick and dingy Turkey-carpet muffles the floor where he 
sits, attended by two candles in old-fashioned silver candlesticks, that • 
give a very insufficient light to his large room. The titles on the : 
backs of his books have retired into the binding ; everything that i 
can have a lock has got one ; no key is visible. Very few loose ; 
papers are about. He has some manuscript near him, but is not ; 
referring to it. With the round top of an inkstand, and twos 
broken bits of sealing-wax, he is silently and slowly working outi 
whatever train of indecision is in his mind. Now, the inkstand 
top is in the middle : now, the red bit of sealing-wax, now the 
black bit. That's not it. Mr. Tulkinghorn must gather them all 
up, and begin again. 



BLEAK HOUSE. 123 

Here, beneath the painted ceiling, with foreshortened Allegory 
staring down at his intrusion as if it meant to swoop upon him, 
and he cutting it dead, Mr. Tulkinghorn has at once his house and 
office. He keeps no staff; only one middle-aged man, usually a 
little out at elbows, who sits in a high Pew in the hall, and is 
rarely overburdened ■svith business. Mr. Tulkinghorn is not in a 
common way. He wants no clerks. He is a great reservoir of 
confidences, not to be so tapped. His clients want him ; he is all 
in all. Drafts that he requires to be drawn, are drawn by special- 
pleaders in the Temple on mysterious instructions ; fair coijies that 
he requires to be made, are made at the stationer's, expense being 
no consideration. The middle-aged man in the Pew, knows scarcely 
more of the affairs of the Peerage, than any crossing-sweeper in 
Holborn. 

The red bit, the black bit, the inkstand top, the other inkstand 
top, the little sand-box. So ! You to the middle, you to the 
right, you to the left. This train of indecision must surely be 
worked out now or never. — Now ! Mr. Tulkinghorn gets up, 
adjusts his sijectacles, puts on his hat, puts the manuscript in 
his pocket, goes out, tells the middle-aged man out at elbows, "I 
shall be back presently." Very rarely tells him anything more 
explicit. 

Mr. Tulkinghorn goes, as the crow came — not quite so straight, 
but nearly — to Cook's Court, Cursitor Street. To Snagsby's, 
Law Stationer's, Deeds engrossed and copied. Law- Writing executed 
in all its branches, &c., &c., &c. 

It is somewhere about five or six o'clock in the afternoon, and a 
balmy fragrance of warm tea hovers in Cook's Court. It hovers 
about Snagsby's door. The hours are early there ; dinner at half- 
past one, and supper at half-past nine. Mr. Snagsby was about to 
descend into the subterranean regions to take tea, when he looked 
out of his door just now, and saw the crow who was out late. 

" Master at home 1 " 

Guster is minding the shop, for the 'prentices take tea in the 
ikitchen, with Mr. and Mrs. Snagsby; consequently, the robe- 
maker's two daughters, combing their curls at the two glasses in 
'the two second-floor windows of the opposite house, are not driving 
"the two 'prentices to distraction, as they fondly suppose, but are 
'merely awakening the unprofitable admiration of Guster, whose 
hair won't grow, and never would, and, it is confidently thought, 
laever will. 

« " Master at home 1 " says Mr. Tulkinghorn. 
1 Master is at home, and Guster will fetch him. Guster disap- 
1 pears, glad to get out of the shop, which she regards with mingled 



124 BLEAK HOUSE. 



11 



dread and veneration, as a storehouse of awful implements of the 
great torture of the law : a place not to be entered after the gas is 
turned off. 

Mr. Snagsby appears : greasy, warm, herbaceous, and chewing. 
Bolts a bit of bread and butter. Says, " Bless my soul, sir ! Mr* . 
Tulkinghorn ! " || 

" I want half a word with you, Snagsby." 

" Certainly, sir ! Dear me, sir, why didn't you send your young 
man round for me 1 Pray walk into the back shop, sir." Snagsby 
has brightened in a moment. 

The confined room, strong of parchment-grease, is warehouse, i 
counting-house, and copying-office. Mr. Tulkinghorn sits, facing 1 
round, on a stool at the desk. 

" Jarndyce and Jarndyce, Snagsby." 

"Yes, sir." Mr. Snagsby turns up the gas, and coughs behind 
his hand, modestly anticipating profit. Mr. Snagsby, as a timid 
man, is accustomed to cough with a variety of expressions, and so 
to save words. 

" You copied some affidavits in that cause for me lately." 

" Yes, sir, we did." 

"There was one of them," says Mr. Tulkinghorn, carelessly feel- 
ing — tight, unopenable Oyster of the old school ! — in the wrong 
coat-pocket, " the handwriting of which is peculiar, and I rather 
like. As I happened to be passing, and thought I had it about 
me, I looked in to ask you — but I haven't got it. No matter, 
any other time will do — Ah ! here it is ! — I looked in to ask you 
who copied this 1 " 

"Who copied this, sir?" says Mr. Snagsby, taking it, laying it 
flat on the desk, and separating all the sheets at once with a twirl 
and a twist of the left hand peculiar to law-stationers. " We gave 
this out, sir. We were giving out rather a large quantity of work 
just at that time. I can tell you in a moment who copied it, six,i 
by referring to my Book." 

Mr. Snagsby takes his Book down from the safe, makes another 
bolt of the bit of bread and butter which seems to have stopped 
short, eyes the affidavit aside, and brings his right forefinger travel- 
Img down a page of the Book. " Jewby — Packer — Jarndyce." 

" Jarndyce ! Here we are, sir," says Mr. Snagsby. " To be sure ! 
I might have remembered it. This was given out, sir, to a Writer 
who lodges just over on the opposite side of the lane." 

Mr. Tulkinghorn has seen the entry, found it before the Law- 
stationer, read it while the forefinger was coming down the hill. 

" What do you call him ? Nemo 1 " says Mr. Tulkinghorn. 

" Nemo, sir. Here it is. Forty-two folio. 'Given out on the 



BLEAK HOUSE. 125 

Wednesday night, at eight o'clock ; brought in on the Thursday 
morning, at half after nine." 

" Nemo ! " repeats Mr. Tulkinghorn. " Nemo is Latin for no 
one." 

" It must be English for some one, sir, I think," Mr. Snagsby 
submits, with his deferential cough. "It is a person's name. 
Here it is, you see, sir ! Forty-two folio. Given out, Wednesday 
niglit, eight o'clock ; brought in, Thursday mornmg, half after 
nine." 

The tail of Mr. Snagsby's eye becomes conscious of the head of 
Mrs. Snagsby looking in at the shop-door to know what he means 
by deserting his tea. Mr. Snagsby addresses an explanatory cough 
to Mrs. Snagsby, as who should say, " My dear, a customer ! " 

" Half after nine, sir," repeats Mr. Snagsby. " Our law-writers, 
who live by job-work, are a queer lot ; and this may not be his 
name, but it's the name he goes by. I remember now, sir, that he 
gives it in a written advertisement he sticks up down at the Rule 
Office, and the King's Bench Office, and the Judges' Chambers, 
and so forth. You know the kind of document, sir — wanting 
employ 1 " 

Mr. Tulkinghorn glances through the little window at the back 
of Coavinses', the sheriff's officers, where lights shine in Ooavinses' 
windows. Coavinses' coffee-room is at the back, and the shadows 
of several gentlemen under a cloud loom cloudily upon the blinds. 
Mr. Snagsby takes the opportunity of slightly turning his head, to 
glance over his shoulder at his little woman, and to make apologetic 
motions with his mouth to this effect: " Tul-king-horn — -rich — 
in-fiu-eu-tial ! " 

" Have you given this man work before 1 " asks Mr. Tulkinghorn. 
I "0 dear, yes, sir! Work of yours." 

1 " Thinking of more important matters, I forget where you said 
ihe lived ? " 

"Across the lane, sir. In fact, he lodges at a — " Mr. Snagsby 
makes another bolt, as if the bit of bread-and-butter were insur- 
^mountable — " at a Rag and Bottle shop." 
'- " Can you show me the place as I go back ? " 

" With the greatest pleasure, sir ! " 
J Mr. Snagsby pulls off his sleeves and his grey coat, pulls on his 
iblack coat, takes his hat from its peg. " Oh ! here is my little 
ivoman!" he says aloud. "My dear, will you be so kind as to 
r<ell one of the lads to look after the shop, while I step across the 
ane with Mr. Tulkingliom 1 Mrs. Snagsby, sir — I shan't be two 
ninutes, my love ! " 
!: Mrs. Snagsby bends to the lawyer, retires behind the counter, 



126 BLEAK HOUSE. 

peeps at them through the window-blind, goes softly into the back 
office, refers to the entries in the book still lying open. Is evidently 
curious. 

" You will find that the place is rough, sir," says Mr. Snagsby, 
walking deferentially in the road, and leaving the narrow pavement 
to the lawyer ; " and the party is very rough. But they're a wild 
lot in general, sir. The advantage of this particular man is, that 
he never wants sleep. He'll go at it right on end, if you want him 
to, as long as ever you like." 

It is quite dark now, and the gas-lamps have acquired their full 
effect. Jostling against clerks going to post the day's letters, and 
against counsel and attorneys going home to dinner, and against 
plaintiffs and defendants, and suitors of all sorts, and against the 
general crowd, in whose way the forensic wisdom of ages has inter- 
posed a million of obstacles to the transaction of the commonest 
business of life — diving through law and equity, and through that 
kindred mystery, the street mud, which is made of nobody knows 
what, and collects about us nobody knows whence or how : we only 
knowing in general that when there is too much of it, we find it 
necessary to shovel it away — the lawyer and the law-stationer 
come to a Rag and Bottle shop, and general emporium of much dis- 
regarded merchandise, lying and being in the shadow of the wall of 
Lincoln's Inn, and kept, as is announced in paint, to all whom it 
may concern, by one Krook. 

" This is where he lives, sir," says the law-stationer. 

" This is where he lives, is it ? " says the lawyer unconcernedlj 
" Thank you." 

" Are you not going in, sir ? " 

" No, thank you, no ; I am going on to the Fields at present. 
Good evening. Thank you ! " Mr. Snagsby lifts his hat, and 
returns to his little woman and his tea. 

But Mr. Tulkinghorn does not go on to the Fields at present. 
He goes a short way, turns back, comes again to the shop of Mr. 
Krook, and enters it straight. It is dim enough, with a blot- 
headed candle or so in the windows, and an old man and a cat 
sitting in the back part by a fire. The old man rises and comes 
forward, with another blot-headed candle in his hand. . . 

" Pray, is your lodger within ? " 1 1 

"Male or female, sir?" says Mr. Krook. '^* 

"Male. The person who does copying." 

Mr. Krook has eyed his man narrowly. Knows him by sight. | 
Has an indistinct impression of his aristocratic repute. i 

" Did you wish to see him, sir ? " 

" Yes." 



I 



BLEAK HOUSE. 127 

"It's what I seldom do myself," says Mr. Krook with a grin. 
" Shall I call him down 1 But it's a weak chance if he'd come, sir ! " 

" I'll go up to him, then," says Mr. Tulkinghorn. 

" Second floor, sir. Take the candle. Up there ! " Mr. 
Krook, with his cat beside him, stands at the bottom of the stair- 
case, looking after Mr. Tulkinghorn. " Hi — hi ! " he says, when 
Mr. Tulkinghorn has nearly disappeared. The lawyer looks down 
over the hand-rail. The cat expands her wicked mouth, and snarls 
at him. 

" Order, Lady Jane ! Behave yourself to visitors, my lady ! 
You know what they say of my lodger ? " whispers Krook, going 
up a step or two. 

" What do they say of him ? " 

" They say he has sold himself to the Enemy ; but you and I 
know better — he don't buy. I'll tell you what, though ; my 
lotlger is so black-humoured and gloomy, that I believe he'd as 
soon make that bargain as any other. Don't put him out, sir. 
That's my advice ! " 

Mr. Tulkinghorn with a nod goes on his way. He comes to the 
dark door on the second floor. He knocks, receives no answer, 
opens it, and accidentally extinguishes his candle in doing so. 

The air of the room is almost bad enough to have extinguished 
it, if he had not. It is a small room, nearly black with soot, and 
grease, and dirt. In the rusty skeleton of a grate, pinched at the 
middle as if Poverty had gripped it, a red coke fire burns low. In 
the corner by the chimney, stand a deal table and a broken desk : 
a wilderness marked with a rain of ink. In another comer, a 
ragged old portmanteau on one of the two chairs, serves for cabinet 
or wardrobe ; no larger one is needed, for it collapses like the cheeks 
of a starved man. The floor is bare ; except that one old mat, 
trodden to shreds of rope-yarn, lies perishing upon the hearth. No 
curtain veils the darkness of the night, but the discoloured shutters 
I are drawn together; and through the two gaunt holes pierced in them, 
famine might be staring in — the Banshee of the man upon the bed. 

For, on a low bed opposite the fire, a confusion of dirty patch- 
work, lean-ribbed ticking, and coarse sacking, the lawyer, hesitating 
just within the doorway, sees a man. He lies there, dressed in 
ishirt and trousers, with bare feet. He has a yellow look, in the 
spectral darkness of a candle that has guttered down, until the 
whole length r' its wick (still burning) has doubled over, and left 
til tower of wiuamg-sheet above it. His hair is ragged, mingling 
with his whiskers and his beard — the latter, ragged too, and 
i^-own, like the scum and mist around him, in neglect. Foul and 
ilthy as the room is, foul and filthy as the air, it is not easy to 



128 BLEAK HOUSE. 

perceive what fumes those are which most oppress the senses in it ; 
but through the general sickliness and faintness, and the odour of 
stale tobacco, there comes into the lawyer's mouth the bitter, vapid 
taste of opium. 

" Hallo, my friend ! " he cries, and strikes his iron candlestick 
against the door. 

He thinks he has awakened his friend. He lies a little turned 
away, but his eyes are surely open. 

" Hallo, my friend ! " he cries again. " Hallo ! Hallo ! " 

As he rattles on the door, the candle which has drooped so long, 
goes out, and leaves him in the dark ; with the gaunt eyes in the 
shutters staring down upon the bed. 



CHAPTER XL 

OUR DEAR BROTHER. 

A TOUCH on the lawyer's wrinkled hand, as he stands in th 
dark room, iiTCSolute, makes him start and say " What's that 1 ' 

" It's me," returns the old man of the house, whose breath is ii 
his ear. " Can't you wake him 1 " 

"No." 

" What have you done with your candle ? " 

" It's gone out. Here it is." 

Krook takes it, goes to the fire, stoops over the red embers, an^ 
tries to get a light. The dying ashes have no light to spare, and 
his endeavours are vain. Muttering, after an ineffectiial call to his 
lodger, that he will go down-stairs and bring a lighted candle from 
the shop, the old man departs. Mr. Tulkinghorn, for some new 
reason that he has, does not await his return in the room, but on the 
stairs outside. 

The welcome light soon shines upon the wall, as Krook comes 
slowly up, with his green-eyed cat following at his heels. " Does 
the man generally sleep like this ? " inquires the lawyer, in a low 
voice. " Hi ! I don't know," says Krook, shaking his head and 
lifting his eyebrows. "I know next to nothing of his habits^ 
except that he keeps himself very close." flj 



Thus whispering, they both go in together. As the light goei 

in, the great eyes in the shutters, darkening, seem to close. Not 

so the eyes upon the bed. j j 

" God save us ! " exclaims Mr. Tulkinghorn. " He is dead ! " 

Krook drops the heavy hand lie has taken up, so suddenly ths 

the arm swings over the bedside. 



lal 



BLEAK HOUSE. 129 

They look at one another for a moment. 

" Send for some doctor ! Call for Miss Flite up the stairs, sir. " 
Here's poison by the bed ! Call out for Flite, will you 1 " says 
Krook, with his lean hands spread out above the body like a vam- 
pire's wings. 

Mr. Tulkinghorn hurries to the landing, and calls " Miss Flite ! 
Flite ! Make haste, here, whoever you are ! Flite ! " Krook 
follows him with his eyes, and, while he is calling, finds opportunity 
to steal to the old portmanteau, and steal back again. 

" Run, Flite, run ! The nearest doctor ! Run ! " So Mr. 
Krook addresses a crazy little woman, who is his female lodger : 
who appears and vanishes in a breath : who soon returns, accom- 
panied by a testy medical man, brought from his dinner — with a 
broad snuffy upper lip, and a broad Scotch tongue. 

" Ey ! Bless the hearts o' ye," says the medical man, looking up 
at them after a moment's examination. " He's just as dead as 
Phairy ! " 

Mr. Tulkinghorn (standing by the old portmanteau) inquires if 
he has been dead any time ? 

"Any time, sir?" says the medical gentleman. "It's probable 
he wull have been dead aboot three hours." 

" About that time, I should say," observes a dark young man, on 
the other side of the bed. 

" Air you in the maydickle prayfession yourself, sir ? " inquires 
the first. 

The dark young man says yes. 

" Then I'll just tak' my depairture," replies the other ; " for I'm 
nae gude here ! " With which remark, he finishes his brief attend- 
ance, and returns to finish his dinner. 

The dark young surgeon passes the candle across and across the 
face, and carefully examines the law-writer, who has established his 
pretensions to his name by becoming indeed No one. 

" I knew this person by sight, very well," says he. " He has 
purchased opium of me, for the last year and a half. Was anybody 
present related to him 1 " glancing round upon the three bystanders. 

" I was his landlord," grimly answers Krook, taking the candle 
from the surgeon's outstretched hand. " He told me once, I was 
the nearest relation he had." 

"He has died," says the surgeon, "of an over-dose of opium, 
there is no doubt. The room is strongly flavoured with it. There 
is enough here now," taking an old teapot from Mr. Krook, " to 
kill a dozen people." 

" Do you think he did it on purpose ? " asks Krook. 

" Took the over-dose ? " 



130 BLEAK HOUSE. 

"Yes!" Krook almost smacks his lips with the unction of a 
horrible interest. 

" I can't say. I should think it unlikely, as he has been in the 
habit of taking so much. But nobody can tell. He was very poor, 
I suppose 1 " 

" I suppose he was. His room — don't look rich," says Krook : 
who might have changed eyes with his cat, as he casts his sharj) 
glance around. " But I have never been in it since he had it, and 
he was too close to name his circumstances to me." 

" Did he owe you any rent ? " 

" Six weeks." 

" He will never pay it ! " says the young man, resuming his 
examination. "It is beyond a doubt that he is indeed as dead as 
Pharaoh ; and to judge from his appearance and condition, I should 
think it a happy release. Yet he must have been a good figure 
when a youth, and I dare say, good-looking." He says this, not 
unfeelingly, while sitting on the bedstead's edge, with his face 
towards that other face, and his hand upon the region of the heart. 
" I recollect once thinking there was something in his manner, 
uncouth as it was, that denoted a fall in life. Was that so ? " he 
continues, looking round. 

Krook replies, "You might as well ask me to describe the ladies 
whose heads of hair I have got in sacks down-stairs. Than that 
he was my lodger for a year and a half, and lived — or didn't live 
— - by law- writing, I know no more of him." 

During tliis dialogue, Mr. Tulkinghorn has stood aloof by the old 
portmanteau, with his hands behind him, equally removed, to all 
appearance, from all three kinds of interest exhibited near the bed 
— from the young surgeon's professional interest in death, notice- 
able as being quite apart from his remarks on the deceased as an 
individual ; from the old man's unction ; and the little crazy woman's 
awe. His imperturbable face has been as inexpressive as his rusty 
clothes. One could not even say he has been thinking all this 
while. He has shown neither patience nor impatience, nor atten- 
tion nor abstraction. He has shown nothing but his shell. As 
easily might the tone of a delicate musical instrument be inferred 
from its case, as the tone of Mr. Tulkinghorn from his case. 

He now interposes ; addressing the young surgeon, in his un- 
moved, professional way. 

"I looked in here," he observes, "just before you, with the in- 
tention of giving this deceased man, whom I never saw alive, some 
employment at his trade of copying. I had heard of him from my 
stationer — Snagsby of Cook's Court. Since no one here knows 
anything about him, it might be as well to send for Snagsby, 



t 



BLEAK HOUSE. 131 

All ! " to the little crazy woman, who has often seen him in Court, 
and whom he has often seen, and who proposes, in frightened 
dumb-sliow, to go for the law-stationer. " Suppose you do ! " 

While she is gone, the surgeon abandons his hopeless investiga- 
tion, and covers its subject with the patchwork counterpane. Mr. 
Krook and he interchange a word or two. Mr. Tulkinghorn says 
nothing; but stands, ever, near the old portmanteau. 

Mr. Snagsby arrives hastily, in his grey coat and his black 
sleeves. "Dear me, dear me," he says; "and it has come to this, 
has it ! Bless my soul ! " 

" Can you give the person of the house any information about 
this unfortunate creature, Snagsby ? " inquires Mr. Tulkinghorn. 
" He was in arrears with his rent, it seems. And he must be 
buried, you know." 

" Well, sir," says Mr. Snagsby, coughing his apologetic cough 
behind his hand; "I really don't know what advice I could offer, 
except sending for the beadle." 

" I don't speak of advice," returns Mr. Tulkinghorn. " / could 
advise " 

(" No one better, sir, I am sure," says Mr. Snagsby, with his 
deferential cough.) 

"I speak of affording some clue to his connections, or to where 
he came from, or to anything concerning him." 

" I assure you, sir," says Mr. Snagsby, after prefacing his reply 
with his cough of general propitiation, " that I no more know 
where he came from, than I know " 

"Where he has gone to, perhaps," suggests the surgeon, to help 
him out. 

A pause. Mr. Tulkinghorn looking at the law-stationer. Mr. 
Krook, with his mouth open, looking for somebody to speak next. 

" As to his connections, sir," says Mr. SnagsbJ^ "if a person was 
to say to me, ' Snagsby, here's twenty thousand pound down, ready 
for you in the Bank of England, if you'll only name one of 'em,' I 
couldn't do it, sir ! About a year and a half ago — to the best 
of my belief at the time when he first came to lodge at the present 
Rag and Bottle shop — " 

" That was the time ! " says Krook, with a nod. 

" About a year and a half ago," says Mr. Snagsby, strengthened, 
" he came into our place one morning after breakfast, and, finding 
my little woman (which I name Mrs. Snagsby when I use that 
appellation) in our shop, jiroduced a specimen of his handwriting, 
and gave her to understand that he was in want of copying work 
to do, and was — not to put too fine a point upon it — " a favour- 
ite apology for plain-speaking with Mr. Snagsby, which he always 



132 BLEAK HOUSE. 

offers with a sort of argumentative frankness, " hard up ! My 
little woman is not in general partial to strangers, particular — 
not to put too fine a point upon it — when they want anything. 
But she was rather took by something about this person ; whether 
by his being unshaved, or by his hair being in want of attention, 
or by what other ladies' reasons, I leave you to judge ; and she 
accepted of the specimen, and likewise of the address. My little 
woman hasn't a good ear for names," proceeds Mr. Snagsby, after 
consulting his cough of consideration behind his hand, " and she 
considered Nemo equally the same as Nimrod. In consequence 
of which, she got into a habit of saying to me at meals, ' Mr. 
Snagsby, you haven't found Nimrod any work yet ! ' or ' Mr. 
Snagsby, why didn't you give that eight-and-thirty Chancery folio 
in Jarndyce, to Nimrod ? ' or such like. And that is the way he 
gradually fell into job-work at our place; and that is the most I 
know of him, except that he was a quick hand, and a hand not 
sparing of night-work ; and that if you gave him out, say five-and- 
forty folio on the Wednesday night, you would have it brought in 
on the Thursday morning. All of which — " Mr. Snagsby con- 
cludes by politely motioning with his hat towards the bed, as much 
as to add, " I have no doubt my honourable friend would confirm, 
if he were in a condition to do it." 

" Hadn't you better see," says Mr. Tulkinghorn to Krook, 
"whether he had any papers that may enlighten you? There 
will be an Inquest, and you wiU be asked the question. You can 
read?" 

" No, I can't," returns the old man, with a sudden grin. 

" Snagsby," says Mr. Tulkinghorn, " look over the room for him. 
He will get into some trouble or difliculty, otherwise. Being here, 
I'll wait, if you make haste ; and then I can testify on his behalf, 
if it should ever be necessary, that all was fair and right. If you 
will hold the candle for Mr. Snagsby, my friend, he'll soon see 
whether there is anything to help you." 

" In the first place, here's an old portmanteau, sir," says 
Snagsby. 

Ah, to be sure, so there is ! Mr. Tulkinghorn does n9t appear 
to have seen it before, though he is standing so close to it, and 
though there is very little else. Heaven knows. 

The marine-store merchant holds the light, and the law-stationer 
conducts the search. The surgeon leans against the corner of the 
chimney-piece ; Miss Flite peeps and trembles just within the door. 
The apt old scholar of the old school, with his dull black breeches 
tied with ribbons at the knees, his large black waistcoat, his long- 
sleeved black coat, and his wisp of limp white neckerchief tied in 



BLEAK HOUSE. 133 

the bow the Peerage knows so well, stands in exactly the same 
place and attitude. 

There are some worthless articles of clothing in the old port- 
manteau ; there is a bundle of pawnbrokers' duplicates, those 
turnpike tickets on the road of Poverty ; there is a crumpled 
paper, smelling of opium, on which are scrawled rough memoranda 
— as, took, such a day, so many grains ; took, such another day, so 
many more — begun some time ago, as if with the intention of 
being regularly continued, but soon left off. There are a few dirty 
scraps of newspapers, all referring to Coroners' Inquests ; there is 
nothing else. They search the cupboard, and the drawer of the 
ink-splashed table. There is not a morsel of an old letter, or of 
any other writing, in either. The young surgeon examines the 
dress on the law-writer. A knife and some odd halfpence are all 
he finds. Mr. Snagsby's suggestion is the practical suggestion 
after all, and the beadle must be called in. 

So the little crazy lodger goes for the beadle, and the rest come 
out of the room. " Don't leave the cat there ! " says the surgeon : 
" that won't do ! " Mr. Krook therefore drives her out before 
him ; and she goes furtively down-stairs, winding her lithe tail and 
licking her lips. 

" Good night ! " says Mr. Tulkinghorn ; and goes home to Alle- 
gory and meditation. 

By this time the news has got into the court. GroujDS of its 
inhabitants assemble to discuss the thing ; and the outposts of 
the army of observation (principally boys) are pushed forward to 
Mr. Krook's window, which they closely invest. A policeman has 
already walked up to the room, and walked down again to the 
door, where he stands like a tower, only condescending to see the 
boys at his base occasionally ; but whenever he does see them, they 
quail and fall back. Mrs. Perkins, who has not been for some 
weeks on speaking terms with Mrs. Piper, in consequence of an 
unpleasantness originating in young Perkins having "fetched" 
young Piper "a crack," renews her friendly intercourse on this 
auspicious occasion. The potboy at the corner, who is a privileged 
amateur, as possessing official knowledge of life, and having to deal 
with drunken men occasionally, exchanges confidential communica- 
tions with the policeman, and has the appearance of an impregnable 
youth, unassailable by truncheons and unconfinable in station-houses. 
People talk across the court out of window, and bare-headed scouts 
come hurrying in from Chancery Lane to know what's the matter. 
The general feeling seems to be that it's a blessing Mr. Krook 
warn't made away with first, mingled with a. little natural disap- 
pointment that he was not. In the midst of this sensation, the 
beadle arrives. 



134 BLEAK HOUSE. 

The beadle, though generally understood in the neighbourhood 
to be a ridiculous institution, is not without a certain popularity 
for the moment, if it were only as a man who is going to see the 
body. The policeman considers him an imbecile civilian, a rem- 
nant of the barbarous watchmen-times ; but gives him admission, 
as something that must be borne with until Government shall abolish 
him. The sensation is heightened, as the tidings spread from 
mouth to mouth that the beadle is on the ground, and has gone in. 

By-and-bye the beadle comes out, once more intensifying the sen- 
sation, which has rather languished in the interval. He is under- 
stood to be in want of witnesses, for the Inquest to-morrow, who 
can tell the Coroner and Jury anything whatever respecting the 
deceased. Is immediately referred to innumerable jDeople who can 
tell nothing whatever. Is made more imbecile by being constantly 
informed that Mrs. Green's son "was a law-writer his-self, and 
knowed him better than anybody " — which son of Mrs. Green's 
appears, on inquiry, to be at the present time aboard a vessel 
bound for China, three months out, but considered accessible by 
telegraph, on application to the Lords of the Admiralty. Beadle 
goes into various shops and parlours, examining the inhabitants ; 
always shutting the door first, and by exclusion, delay, and general 
idiotcy, exasperating the public. Policeman seen to smile to pot- 
boy. Public loses interest, and undergoes reaction. Taunts the 
beadle, in shrill youthful voices, with having boiled a boy ; cho- 
russes fragments of a popular song to that effect, and importing 
that the boy was made into soup for the workhouse. Policeman 
at last finds it necessary to support the law, and seize a vocalist; 
who is released upon the flight of the rest, on condition of his get- 
ting out of this then, come ! and cutting it — a condition he imme- 
diately observes. So the sensation dies off for the time ; and the 
unmoved policeman (to whom a little opium, more or less, is noth- 
ing), with his shining hat, stiff stock, inflexible great-coat, stout 
belt and bracelet, and all things fitting, pursues his lounging way 
with a heavy tread : beating the palms of his white gloves one 
against the other, and stopping now and then, at a street-corner, 
to look casually about for anything between a lost child and a 
murder. 

Under cover of the night, the feeble-minded beadle comes flitting 
about Chancery Lane with his summonses, in which every Juror's 
name is wrongly spelt, and nothing is rightly spelt but the beadle's 
own name, which nobody can read or wants to know. The sum- 
monses served, and his witnesses forewarned, the beadle goes to 
Mr. Krook's, to keep a small appointment he has made with certain 
paupers ; who, presently arriving, are conducted up-stairs ; where 






BLEAK HOUSE. 135 

they leave the great eyes in the shutter something new to stare at, 
in that last shape which earthly lodgings take for No one — and 
for Every one. 

And, all that night, the coffin stands ready by the old port- 
manteau ; and the lonely figure on the bed, whose path in life 
has lain through fivc-and-forty years, lies there, with no more track 
behind him, that any one can trace, than a deserted infant. 

Next day the court is all alive — is like a fair, as Mrs. Perkins, 
more than reconciled to Mrs. Piper, says, in amicable conversation 
with that excellent woman. The Coroner is to sit in the first-floor 
room at the Sol's Artos, where the Harmonic Meetings take place 
twice a week, and where the chair is filled by a gentleman of pro- 
fessional celebrity, faced by Little Swills, the comic vocalist, who 
hopes (according to the bill in the window) that his friends will 
rally round him, and support first-rate talent. The Sol's Arms 
does a brisk stroke of business all the morning. Even children so 
require sustaining, under the general excitement, that a pieman, 
who has established himself for the occasion at the corner of the 
court, says his brandy-balls go off" like smoke. What time the 
beadle, hovering between the door of Mr. Krook's establishment 
and the door of the Sol's Arms, shows the curiosity in his keeping 
to a few discreet spirits, and accepts the compliment of a glass of 
ale or so in return. 

At the appointed hour arrives the Coroner, for whom the Jury- 
men are waiting, and who is received with a salute of skittles from 
the good dry skittle-ground attached to the Sol's Arms. The Cor- 
oner frequents more public-houses than any man alive. The smell 
of sawdust, beer, tobacco-smoke, and spirits, is inseparable in his 
vocation from death in its most awful shapes. He is conducted by 
the beadle and the landlord to the Harmonic Meeting Room, where 
he puts his hat on the piano, and takes a Windsor-chair at the head 
of a long table, formed of several short tables put together, and 
ornamented with glutinous rings in endless involutions, made by 
pots and glasses. As many of the Jury as can crowd together at 
the table sit there. The rest get among the spittoons and pipes, 
or lean against the piano. Over the Coroner's head is a small iron 
garland, the pendant handle of a bell, which rather gives the 
Majesty of the Court the appearance of going to be hanged 
presently. 

Call over and swear the Jury ! While the ceremony is in prog- 
ress, sensation is created by the entrance of a chubby little man in 
a large shirt-collar, with a moist eye, and an inflamed nose, who 
modestly takes a position near the door as one of the general 
public, but seems familiar with the room too. A whisper circulates 



136 BLEAK HOUSE. 

that this is Little Swills. It is considered not unlikely that he 
will get up an imitation of the Coroner, and make it the principal 
feature of the Harmonic Meeting in the evening. 

" Well, gentlemen — " the Coroner begins. 

"Silence there, will you ! " says the beadle. Not to the Coroner, 
though it might appear so. 

" Well, gentlemen," resumes the Coroner. " You are impan- 
elled here, to inquire into the death of a certain man. Evidence 
will be given before you, as to the circumstances attending that 
death, and you will give your verdict according to the — skittles ; 
they must be stopped, you know, beadle ! — evidence, and not 
according to anything else. The first thing to be done, is to view 
the body." 

" Make way there ! " cries the beadle.' 

So they go out in a loose procession, something after the manner 
of a straggling funeral, and make their inspection in Mr. Krook's 
back second floor, from which a few of the Jurymen retire pale and 
precipitately. The beadle is very careful that two gentlemen not 
very neat about the cuffs and buttons (for whose accommodation 
he has provided a special little table near the Coroner, in the Har- 
monic Meeting Room) should see all that is to be seen. For they 
are the public chroniclers of such inquiries, by the line ; and he is 
not superior to the universal human infirmity, but hopes to read in 
print what " Mooney, the active and intelligent beadle of the dis- 
trict," said and did ; and even aspires to see the name of Mooney 
as familiarly and patronisingly mentioned as the name of the Hang- 
man is, according to the latest examples. 

Little Swills is waiting for the Coroner and Jury on their return. 
Mr. Tulkinghorn, also. ' Mr. Tulkinghorn is received with distinc- 
tion, and seated near the Coroner ; between that high judicial 
officer, a bagatelle-board, and the coal-box. The inquiry proceeds. 
The Jury learn how the subject of their inquiry died, and learn no 
more about him. " A very eminent solicitor is in attendance, 
gentlemen," says the Coroner, " who, I am informed, was acci- 
dentally present, when discovery of the death was made ; but he 
could only repeat the evidence you have already heard from the 
surgeon, the landlord, the lodger, and the law-stationer ; and it is 
not necessary to trouble him. Is anybody in attendance who knows 
anything more 1 " 

Mrs. Piper pushed forward by Mrs. Perkins. Mrs. Piper sworn. 

Anastasia Piper, gentlemen. Married woman. Now, Mrs. Piper 
— what have you got to say about this 1 

Why, Mrs. Piper has a good deal to say, chiefly in parenthesis 
and without punctuation, but not much to tell. Mrs. Piper lives 



BLEAK HOUSE. 137 

in the court (which her husband is a cabinet-maker), and it has 
long been well beknown among the neighbours (counting from the 
day next but one before the half-baptising of Alexander James Piper 
aged eighteen months and four days old on accounts of not being 
expected to live such was the sufferings gentlemen of that child in 
his gums) as the Plaintive — so Mrs. Piper insists on calling the 
deceased — was reported to have sold himself. Thinks it was the 
Plaintive's air in which that report originatinin. See the Plaintive 
often, and considered as his air wa,s feariocious and not to be allowed 
to go about some children being timid (and if doubted hoping Mrs. 
Perkins may be brought forard for she is here and will do credit 
to her husband and herself and family). Has seen the Plaintive 
wexed and worrited by the childi'en (for children they will ever be 
and you cannot expect them specially if of playful dispositions to 
be Methoozellers which you was not yourself). On accounts of this 
and his dark looks has often dreamed as she see him take a pick-axe 
from his pocket and split Johnny's head (which the child knows not 
fear and has repeatually called after him close at his eels). Never 
however see the Plaintive take a pick-axe or any other wepping far 
from it. Has seen him hurry away when run and called after as 
if not partial to children and never see him speak to neither child 
nor grown person at any time (excepting the boy that sweeps the 
crossing down the lane over the way round the corner which if he 
was here would tell you that he has been seen a speaking to him 
frequent). 

Says the Coroner, is that boy here 1 Says the beadle, no, sir, he 
is not here. Says the Coroner, go and fetch him then. In the 
absence of the active and intelligent, the Coroner converses with 
Mr. Tidkinghom. 

! Here's the boy, gentlemen ! 

Here he is, very muddy, very hoarse, very ragged. Now, boy ! 
— But stop a minute. Caution. This boy must be put through 
a few preliminary paces. 

Name, Jo. Nothing else that he knows on. Don't know that 
eveiybody has two names. Never heerd of sich a think. Don't 
know that Jo is short for a longer name. Thinks it long enough 
for him. He don't find no fault with it. Spell it ? No. He 
can't spell it. No father, no mother, no friends. Never been to 
school. What's home ? Knows a broom's a broom, and knows it's 
wicked to tell a lie. Don't recollect who told him about the broom, 
or about the lie, but knows both. Can't exactly say what'll be 
done to him arter he's dead if he tells a lie to the gentlemen here, 
but believes it'll be something wery bad to punish him, and serve 
him right — and so he'll tell the truth. 



138 BLEAK HOUSE. 

" This won't do, gentlemen ! " says the Coroner, with a melan- 
choly shake of the head. 

"Don't you think you can receive his evidence, sir?" asks an 
attentive Juiyman. 

" Out of the question," says the Coroner. " You have heard the 
boy. ' Can't exactly say ' won't do, you know. We can't take 
that, in a Court of Justice, gentlemen. It's terrible depravity. 
Put the boy aside." 

Boy put aside ; to the great edification of the audience ; — esjje- 
cially of Little Swills, the Comic Vocalist. 

Now. Is there any other witness 1 No other witness. 

Very well, gentlemen ! Here's a man unknown, proved to have 
been in the habit of taking opium in large quantities for a year 
and a half, found dead of too much opium. If you think you 
have any evidence to lead you to the conclusion that he committed 
suicide, you will come to that conclusion. If you think it is a case 
of accidental death, you will find a Verdict accordingly. 

Verdict accordingly. Accidental death. No doubt. Gentlemen, 
you are discharged. Good afternoon. 

While the Coroner buttons his great-coat, Mr. Tulkinghorn and 
he give private audience to the rejected witness in a corner. 

That graceless creature only knows that the dead man (whom he 
recognised just now by his yellow face and black hair) was some- 
times hooted and pursued about the streets. That one cold winter 
night, when he, the boy, was shivering in a doorway near his cross- 
ing, the man turned to look at him, and came back, and, having 
questioned him and found that he had not a friend in the world, 
said, " Neither have I. Not one ! " and gave him the price of a 
supper and a night's lodging. That the man had often spoken to 
him -since ; and asked him whether he slept sound at night, and 
how he bore cold and hunger, and whether he ever wished to die 
and similar strange questions. That when the man had no moneyJ 
he would say in passing, " I am as poor as you to-day, Jo ; " bu^ 
that when he had any, he had always (as the boy most heartilj 
believes) been glad to give him some. 

" He was wery good to me," says the boy, wiping his eyes wit! 
his wretched sleeve. " Wen I see him a layin' so stritched out jus^ 
now, I wished he could have heerd me tell him so. He wos wei"] 
good to me, he wos ! " 

As he shuffles down-stairs, Mr. Snagsby, lying in wait for him, 
puts a half-crown in his hand. " If you ever see me coming past 
your crossing with my little woman — I mean a lady — " says Mr. 
Snagsby, with his finger on his nose, " don't allude to it ! " 

For some little time the Jurymen hang about the Sol's Arms 



BLEAK HOUSE. 139 

colloquially. In the sequel, half-a-dozen are caught up in a cloud 
of pipe-smoke that pervades the parlour of the Sol's Arms ; two 
stroll to Hampstead; and four engage to go half-price to the play 
at night, and top up with oysters. Little Swills is treated on sev- 
eral hands. Being asked what he thinks of the proceedings, char- 
acterises them (his strength lying in a slangular direction) as " a 
rummy start." The landlord of the Sol's Armsi, finding Little Swills 
so popular, commends him highly to the Jurymen and public ; 
observing that, for a song in character, he don't know his equal, 
and that that man's character-wardrobe would fill a cart. 

Thus, gradually the Sol's Arms melts into the shadowy night, 
and then flares out of it strong in gas. The Harmonic Meeting 
hour arriving, the gentleman of professional celebrity takes the 
chair ; is faced (red-faced) by Little Swills ; their friends rally round 
them, and support first-rate talent. In the zenith of the evening, 
Little Swills says. Gentlemen, if you'll permit me, I'll attempt a 
short description of a scene of real life that came off here to-day. 
Is much applauded and encouraged ; goes out of the room as Swills ; 
comes in as the Coroner (not the least in the world like him) ; de- 
scribes the Inquest, with recreative intervals of piano-forte accom- 
paniment to the refrain — With his (the Coroner's) tippy tol li doll, 
tippy tol lo doll, tippy tol li doll. Dee ! 

The jingling piano at last is silent, and the Harmonic friends 
rally round their pillows. Then there is rest around the lonely 
figure, now laid in its last earthly habitation ; and it is watched by 
the gaunt eyes in the shutters through some quiet hours of night. 
If this forlorn man could have been prophetically seen lying here, 
by the mother at whose breast he nestled, a little child, with eyes 
upraised to her loving face, and soft hand scarcely knowing how to 
close upon the neck to which it crept, what an impossibility the 
vision would have seemed ! 0, if, in brighter days, the now-extin- 
guished fire within him ever burned for one woman who held him 
in her heart, where is she, while these ashes are above the ground ! 

It is anything but a night of rest at Mr. Snagsby's, in Cook's 
Court ; where Guster murders sleep, by going, as Mr. Snagsby him- 
self allows — not to put too fine a point upon it — out of one fit 
into twenty. The occasion of this seizure is, that Guster has a 
tender heart, and a susceptible something that possibly might have 
been imagination, but for Tooting and her patron saint. Be it 
what it may, now, it was so direfuUy impressed at tea-time by Mr. 
Snagsby's account of the inquiry at which he had assisted, that at 
supper-time she projected herself into the kitchen, preceded by a 
flying Dutch-cheese, and fell into a fit of unusual duration : which 
she only came out of to go into another, and another, and so on 



140 BLEAK HOUSE. 

through a chain of fits, with short intervals between, of which she 
has jDathetically availed herself by consuming them in entreaties 
to Mrs. Snagsby not to give her warning " when she quite comes 
to ; " and also in appeals to the whole establishment to lay her 
down on the stones, and go to bed. Hence, Mr. Snagsby, at last 
hearing the cock at the little dairy in Cursitor Street go into that 
disinterested ecstasy of his on the subject of daylight, says, draw- 
ing a long breath, though the most patient of men, "I thought you 
was dead, I am sure ! " 

What question this enthusiastic fowl supposes he settles when 
he strains himself to such an extent, or why he should thus crow 
(so men crow on various triumphant public occasions, however) 
about what cannot be of any moment to him, is his affair. It is 
enough that daylight comes, morning comes, noon comes. 

Then the active and intelligent, who has got into the morning 
papers as such, comes with his pauper company to Mr. Krook's, 
and bears off the body of our dear brother here departed, to a 
hemmed-in churchyard, pestiferous and obscene, whence malignant 
diseases are communicated to the bodies of our dear brothers and 
sisters who have not departed ; while our dear brothers and sisters 
who hang about official back-stairs — would to Heaven they had 
departed ! — are very complacent and agreeable. Into a beastly 
scrap of ground whicla a Turk would reject as a savage abomination, 
and a Caffre would shudder at, they bring our dear brother here 
departed, to receive Christian burial. 

With houses looking on, on every side, save where a reeking 
little tunnel of a court gives access to the iron gate — with every 
villainy of life in action- close on death, and every poisonous element 
of death in action close on life — here, they lower our dear brother 
down a foot or two : here, sow him in corruption, to be raised in 
corruption : an avenging ghost at many a sick-bedside : a shameful 
testimony to future ages, how civilisation and barbarism walked 
this boastful island together. 

Come night, come darkness, for you cannot come too soon, or f 
stay too long, by such a place as this ! Come, straggling lights 
into the windows of the ugly houses ; and you who do iniquity 
therein, do it at least with this dread scene shut out ! Come, .' 
flame of gas, burning so sullenly above the iron gate, on which the ■ 
poisoned air deposits its witch-ointment slimy to the touch ! It 
is well that you should call to every passer-by, "Look here ! " I 

With the night, comes a slouching figure through the tunnel- ' 
court, to the outside of the iron gate. It holds the gate with its 
hands, and looks in between the bars j stands looking in, for a little 
while. 



I, 



BLEAK HOUSE. 141 

It then, with an old broom it carries, softly sweeps the step, and 
makes the archway clean. It does so, very busily and trimly j 
looks in again, a little while ; and so departs. 

Jo, is it thou 1 Well, well ! Though a rejected witness, who 
"can't exactly say" what will be done to him in greater hands 
than men's, thou art not quite in outer darkness. There is some- 
thing like a distant ray of light in thy muttered reason for this : 

" He wos weiy good to me, he wos ! " 



CHAPTER XII. 

ON THE WATCH. 

It has left off raining down in Lincolnshire, at last, and Chesney 
Wold lias taken heart. Mrs. Eouncewell is full of hospitable cares, 
for Sir Leicester and my Lady are coming home from Paris. The 
fashionable intelligence has found it out, and communicates the 
glad tidings to benighted England. It has also found out, that 
they will entertain a brilliant and distinguished circle of the elite 
of the beau monde (the fashionable intelligence is weak in English, 
but a giant-refreshed in French), at the ancient and hospitable 
family seat in Lincolnshire. 

For the greater honour of the brilliant and distinguished circle, 
and of Chesney Wold into the bargain, the broken arch of the 
bridge in the park is mended • and the water, now retired within 
its proper limits and again spanned gracefully, makes a figure in 
the prospect from the house. The clear cold sunshine glances into 
the brittle woods, and approvingly beholds the sharp wind scatter- 
ing the leaves and drying the moss. It glides over the park after 
the moving shadows of the clouds, and chases them, and never 
catches them, all day. It looks in at the windows, and touches 
the ancestral portraits with bars and patches of brightness, never 
contemplated by the painters. Athwart the picture of my Lady, 
over the great chimney-piece, it throws a broad bend-sinister of 
light that strikes down crookedly into the hearth, and seems to 
rend it. 

Through the same cold sunshine, and the same sharp wind, my 
Lady and Sir Leicester, in their travelling chariot (my Lady's 
woman, and Sir Leicester's man affectionate in the rumble), start 
for home. With a considerable amount of jingling and whip-crack- 
ing, and many plunging demonstrations on the part of two bare- 
backed horses, and two Centaurs with glazed hats, jack-boots, and 



142 BLEAK HOUSE. 

flowing manes and tails, they rattle out of the yard of the Hotel 
Bristol in the Place Vendome, and canter between the sun-and- 
shadow- chequered colonnade of the Rue de Rivoli and the garden 
of the ill-fated jialace of a headless king and queen, off by the 
Place of Concord, and the Elysian Fields, and the Gate of the 
Star, out of Paris. 

Sooth to say, they cannot go away too fast ; for, even here, my 
Lady Dedlock has been bored to death. Concert, assembly, opera, 
theatre, drive, nothing is new to my Lady, luider the worn-out 
heavens. Only last Sunday, when jDoor wretches were gay — 
within the walls, playing with children among the clipped trees 
and the statues in the Palace G-arden ; walking, a score abreast, 
in the Elysian Fields, made more Elysian by performing dogs and 
wooden horses ; between whiles filtering (a few) through the gloomy 
Cathedral of our Lady, to say a word or two at the base of a iDillar, 
within flare of a rusty little gridiron-full of gusty little tapers — 
without the walls, encompassing Paris with dancing, love-making, 
wine-drinking, tobacco-smoking, tomb-visiting, billiard, card and 
domino playing, quack-doctoring, and much murderous refuse, 
animate and inanimate — only last Sunday, my Lady, in the deso- 
lation of Boredom and the clutch of Giant Despair, almost hated 
her own maid for being in spirits. 

She cannot, therefore, go too fast from Paris. Weariness of 
soul lies before her, as it lies behind — her Ariel has put a girdle 
of it round the whole earth, and it cannot be unclasped — but the 
imperfect remedy is always to fly, from the last place where it has 
been experienced. Fling Paris back into the distance, then, ex- 
changing it for endless avenues and cross-avenues of wintry trees ! 
And, when next beheld, let it be some leagues away, with the Gate 
of the Star a white spBck glittering in the sun, and the city a mere 
mound in a plain : two dark square towers rising out of it, and 
light and shadow descending on it aslant, like the angels in Jacob's 
dream ! 

Sir Leicester is generally in a complacent state, and rarely 
bored. When he has nothing else to do, he can always contem- 
plate his own greatness. It is a considerable advantage to a man, 
to have so inexhaustible a subject. After reading his letters, he 
leans back in his corner of the carriage, and generally reviews his 
importance to society. 

" You have an unusual amount of correspondence this morning? " 
says my Lady, after a long time. She is fatigued with reading. 
Has almost read a page in twenty miles. 

" Nothing in it, though. Nothing whatever." 

" I saw one of Mr. Tulkiughorn's long effusions, I think ? " - 



BLEAK HOUSE. 143 

"You see everything," says Sir Leicester, with admiration. 

" Ha ! " sighs my Lady. " He is the most tiresome of men ! " 

"He sends — ^I really beg your pardon — he sends," says Sir 
Leicester, selecting the letter, and unfolding it, "a message to you. 
Our stopping to change horses, as I came to his postscript, drove 
it out of my memory. I beg you'll excuse me. He says — " Sir 
Leicester is so long in taking out his eye-glass and adjusting it, 
that my Lady looks a little irritated. " He says, ' In the matter 
of the right of way — ' I beg your pardon, that's not the place. 
He says — yes ! Here I have it ! He says, ' I beg my respectful 
compliments to my Lady, who, I hope, has benefited by the change. 
Will you do me the fcivour to mention (as it may interest her), 
that I have something to tell her on her return, in reference to the 
person who copied the affidavit in the Chancery suit, which so 
powerfully stimulated her curiosity. I have seen him.' " 

My Lady, leaning forward, looks out of her window. 

" That's the message," observes Sir Leicester. 

" I should like to walk a little," says my Lady, still looking out 
of her window. 

" Walk 1 " repeats Sir Leicester, in a tone of surprise. 

" I should like to walk a little," says my Lady, with unmistak- 
able distinctness. " Please to stop the carriage." 

The carriage is stopped, the affectionate man alights from the 
rumble, opens the door, and lets down the steps, obedient to an 
impatient motion of my Lady's hand. My Lady alights so quickly, 
and walks away so quickly, that Sir Leicester, for all his scrupu- 
lous politeness, is unable to assist her, and is left behind. A space 
of a minute or two has elapsed before he comes up with her. She 
smiles, looks very handsome, takes his arm, lounges with him for 
a quarter of a mile, is very much bored, and resumes her seat in 
the carriage. 

The rattle and clatter continue through the greater part of three 
days, with more or less of bell-jingling and whip-cracking, and more 
or less plunging of Centaurs and bare-backed horses. Their courtly 
politeness to each other, at the Hotels where they tarry, is the 
theme of general admiration. Though my Lord is a little aged for 
my Lady, says Madame, the hostess of the Golden Ape, and though. 
he might be her amiable father, one can see at a glance that they 
love each other. One observes my Lord with his white hair, 
standing, hat in hand, to help my Lady to and from the carriage. 
One observes my Lady, how recognisant of my Lord's politeness, 
with an inclination of her gracious head, and the concession of her 
so-genteel fingers ! It is ravishing ! 

The sea has no appreciation of great men, but knocks them 



144 BLEAK HOUSE. 

about like the small fry. It is habitually hard upon Sir Leicester, 
whose countenance it greenly mottles in the manner of sage cheese, 
and in whose aristocratic system it effects a dismal revolution. It 
is the Radical of Nature to him. Nevertheless, his dignity gets 
over it, after stopping to refit ; and he goes on with my Lady for 
Chesney Wold, lying only one night in London on the way to 
Lincolnshire. 

Through the same cold sunlight — colder as the day declines, 
— and through the same sharp wind — sharper as the separate 
shadows of bare trees gloom together in the woods, and as the 
Ghost's Walk, touched at the western corner by a pile of fire 
in the sky, resigns itself to coming night, — they drive into the 
park. The Rooks, swinging in their lofty houses in the elm-tree 
avenue, seem to discuss the question of the occupancy of the car- 
riage as it passes underneath ; some agreeing that Sir Leicester 
and my Lady are come down ; some argiiing with malcontents who 
won't admit it ; now, all consenting to consider the question dis- 
posed of; now, all breaking out again in violent debate, incited 
by one obstinate and drowsy bird, who will persist in putting in a 
last contradictory croak. Leaving them to swing and caw, the 
travelling chariot rolls on to the house ; where fires gleam warmly 
through some of the windows, though not through so many as to \1 
give an inhabited expression to the darkening mass of front. But 
the brilliant and distinguished circle will soon do that. 

Mrs. Rouncewell is in attendance, and receives Sir Leicester's 
customary shake of the hand with a profound curtsey. 

" How do you do, Mrs. Rouncewell 1 I am glad to see you." 

" I hope I have the honour of welcoming you in good health, 
Sir Leicester ? " 

" In excellent health, Mrs. Rouncewell." 

" My Lady is looking charmingly well," says Mrs. Rouncewell, 
with another curtsey. 

My Lady signifies, without profuse expenditure of words, that 
she is as wearily well as she can hope to be. 

But Rosa is in the distance, behind the housekeeper ; and my 
Lady, who has not subdued the quickness of her observation, what- 
ever else she may have conquered, asks : 

" Who is that girl ? " 

" A young scholar of mine, my Lady. Rosa." 

" Come here, Rosa ! " Lady Dedlock beckons her, with even an 
appearance of interest. " Why, do you know how pretty you are, 
child ? " she says, touching her shoulder with her two forefingers. 

Rosa, very much abashed, says, " No, if you please, my Lady ! " 
and glances up, and glances down, and don't know where to look 
but looks all the prettier. 



I 



i 



BLEAK HOUSE. 145 

" How old are you ? " 

" Nineteen, my Lady." 

" Nineteen," repeats my Lady, thoughtfully. "Take care they 
don't spoil you by flattery." 

" Yes, my Lady." 

My Lady taps her dimpled cheek with the same delicate gloved 
fingers, and goes on to the foot of the oak staircase, where Sir Leices- 
ter pauses for her as her knightly escort. A staring old Dedlock 
in a panel, as large as life and as dull, looks as if he didn't know 
what to make of it — which was probably his general state of mind 
in the days of Queen Elizabeth. 

That evening, in the housekeeper's room, Rosa can do nothing 
but murmur Lady Dedlock's praises. She is so affable, so grace- 
ful, so beautiful, so elegant ; has such a sweet voice, and such a 
thrilling touch, that Rosa can feel it yet ! Mrs. Rouncewell con- 
firms all this, not mthout jDersonal pride, reserving only the one 
point of affability. Mrs. Rouncewell is not quite sure as to that. 
Heaven forbid that she should say a syllable in dispraise of any 
member of that excellent family ; above all, of my Lady, whom the 
whole world admires; but if my Lady would only be "a little 
more free," not quite so cold and distant, Mrs. Rouncewell thinks 
she would be more afliable. 

" 'Tis almost a pity," Mrs. Rouncewell adds — only "almost," 
because it borders on impiety to suppose that anything could be 
better than it is, in such an express dispensation as the Dedlock 
affairs ; " that my Lady has no family. If she had had a daughter 
now, a grown young lady, to interest her, I think she would have 
had the only kind of excellence she wants." 

" Might not that have made her still more proud, grandmother ? " 
says Watt ; who has been home and come back again, he is such 
a good grandson. 

"More and most, my dear," returns the housekeeper with 
dignity, "are words it's not my place to use — -nor so much as to 
hear — applied to any drawback on my Lady." 

" I beg your pardon, grandmother. But she is proud, is she not ? " 

"If she is, she has reason to be. The Dedlock family have 
always reason to be." 

" Well ! " says Watt, " it's to be hoped they line out of their 
Prayer-Books a certain passage for the common people about pride 
and vainglory. Forgive me, grandmother ! Only a joke ! " 

" Sir Leicester and Lady Dedlock, my dear, are not fit subjects 
for joking." 

"Sir Leicester is no joke, by any means," says Watt ; "and I 
humbly ask his pardon. I suppose, grandmother, that, even with 



146 BLEAK HOUSE. 

the family and their guests down here, there is no objection to my 
prolonging my stay at the Dedlock Arms for a day or two, as any 
other traveller might 1 " 

" Surely, none in the world, child." 

" I am glad of that," says Watt, " because I — because I have an 
inexpressible desire to extend my knowledge of this beautiful neigh- 
bourhood." 

He happens to glance at Rosa, who looks down, and is very shy, 
indeed. But, according to the old superstition, it should be Rosa's 
ears that burn, and not her fresh bright cheeks ; for my Lady's 
maid is holding forth about her at this moment, with surpassing 
energy. 

My Lady's maid is a Frenchwoman of two-and-thirty, from 
somewhere in the southern country about Avignon and Marseilles 
— a large-eyed brown woman with black hair ; who would be 
handsome, but for a certain feline mouth, and general uncomfort- 
able tightness of face, rendering the jaws too eager, and the skull 
too prominent. There is something indefinably keen and wan 
about her anatomy ; and she has a watchful way of looking out of 
the comers of her eyes without turning her head, which could be 
pleasantly dispensed with — especially when she is in an ill-humour 
and near knives. Through all the good taste of her dress and little 
adornments, these objections so express themselves, that she seems 
to go about like a very neat She- Wolf imperfectly tamed. Besides 
being accomplished in all the knowledge appertaining to her post, 
she is almost an Englishwoman in her acquaintance with the lan- 
guage — consequently, she is in no want of words to shower upon 
Rosa for having attracted my Lady's attention ; and she pours 
them out with such grim ridicule as she sits at dinner, that her 
companion, the affectionate man, is rather relieved when she 
arrives at the spoon stage of that performance. 

Ha, ha, ha ! She, Hortense, been in my Lady's service since 
five years, and always kept at the distance, and this doll, this 
puppet, caressed — absolutely caressed — by my Lady on the 
moment of her arriving at the house ! Ha, ha, ha ! " And do 
you know how pretty you are, child ? " — " No, my Lady." — You 
are right there ! " And how old are you, child 1 And take care 
they do not spoil you by flattery, child ! " how droll ! It is j 
the best thing altogether. 

In short, it is such an admirable thing, that Mademoiselle Hor- 
tense can't forget it ; but at meals for days afterwards, even among ] 
her countrywomen and others attached in like capacity to the troop i 
of visitors, relapses into silent enjoyment of the joke — an enjoy- 
ment expressed, in her own convivial manner, by an additional] 



BLEAK HOUSE. 147 

tightness of face, tliin elongation of compressed lips, and sidewise 
look : which intense appreciation of humour is frequently reflected 
in my Lady's mirrors, when my Lady is not among them. 

All tlie mirrors in the house are brought into action now : many 
of them after a long blank. They reflect handsome feces, simper- 
ing feces, youthful faces, faces of threescore-and-ten that will not 
submit to be old ; the entire collection of faces that have come to 
pass a January week or two at Chesney Wold, and which the 
fashionable intelligence, a mighty hunter before the Lord, hunts 
with a keen scent, from their breaking cover at the Court of St. 
James's to their being nm down to Death. The place in Lincoln- 
shire is all alive. By day, guns and voices are heard ringing in 
the woods, horsemen and carriages enliven the park roads, servants 
and hangers-on pervade the Village and the Dedlock Arms. Seen 
by night, from distant openings in the trees, the row of windows 
in the long drawing-room, where my Lady's picture hangs over the 
great chimney-piece, is like a row of jewels set in a black frame. 
On Sunday, the chill little church is almost va^ff'^l by so much 
gallant company, and the general flavour of i and politek dust is 
quenched in delicate perfumes. him — 

The brilliant and distinguished circle comprela-uds within it, no 
contracted amount of education, sense, courage, honour, beauty, 
and virtue. Yet there is something a little wrong about it, in 
despite of its immense advantages. What can it be 1 

Dandyism ? There is no King George the Fourth now (more's 
the pity !) to set the dandy fashion ; there are no clear-starched 
jack-towel neckcloths, no short-waisted coats, no false calves, no 
stays. There are no caricatures, now, of effeminate Exquisites so 
arrayed, swooning in opera boxes with excess of delight, and being 
revived by other dainty creatures, poking long-necked scent-bottles 
at their noses. There is no beau whom it takes four men at once 
to shake into his buckskins, or Avho goes to see all the executions, 
or who is troubled with the self-reproach of having once consumed 
a pea. But is there Dandyism in the brilliant and distinguished 
circle notwithstanding. Dandyism of a more mischievous sort, that 
has got below the surface and is doing less harmless things than 
jack-towelling itself and stopping its own digestion, to which no 
rational person need particularly object ? 

Why, yes. It cannot be disguised. There are, at Chesney 
Wold this January week, some ladies and gentlemen of the newest 
fashion, who have set up a Dandyism — in Religion, for instance. 
Who, in mere lackadaisical want of an emotion, have agi'eed upon 
a little dandy talk about the Vulgar Avanting feith in things in gen- 
eral ; meaning, in the things that have been tried and found want- 



148 BLEAK HOUSE. 

ing, as though a low fellow should unaccountably lose faith in a bad 
shilling, after finding it out ! Who would make the Vulgar very 
picturesque and faithful, by putting back the hands upon the 
Clock of Time, and cancelling a few hundred years of histoiy. 

There are also ladies and gentlemen of another fashion, not so 
new, but very elegant, who have agreed to put a smooth glaze on 
the world, and to keep down all its realities. For whom every- 
thing must be languid and pretty. Who have found out the per- 
petual stoppage. Who are to rejoice at nothing, and be sorry for 
nothing. Who are not to be disturbed by ideas. On whom even 
the Fine Arts, attending in powder and walking backward like the 
Lord Chamberlain, must array themselves in the milliners' and 
tailors' patterns of past generations, and be particularly careful 
not to be in earnest, or to receive any impress from the moving age. 

Then there is my Lord Boodle, of considerable reputation with 
his party, who has known what office is, and who tells Sir Leicester 
Dedlock with much gravity, after dinner, that he really does not 
see to what +' ^vosent age is tending. A debate is not what a 
debate vis-^-i^^^oiT'iy ; j^g House is not what the House used to be ; 
even a Cr '^^ "^^ ^^ot what it formerly was. He perceives with 
astonishment, '^^Pi' supposing the present Government to be over- 
thrown, the limited choice of the Crown, in the formation of a new 
Ministry, would lie between Lord Coodle and Sir Thomas Doodle — 
supposing it to be impossible for the Duke of Foodie to act with 
Goodie, which may be assumed to be the case in consequence of 
the breach arising out of that affair with Hoodie. Then, giving 
the Home Department and the Leadership of the House of Com- 
mons to Joodle, the Exchequer to Koodle, the Colonies to Loodle, 
and the Foreign Office to Moodle, what are you to do with Noodle ? 
You can't offer him the Presidency of the Council ; that is reserved 
for Poodle. You can't put him in the Woods and Forests ; that is 
hardly good enough for Quoodle. What follows ? That the coun- 
try is shipwrecked, lost, and gone to pieces (as is made manifest to 
the patriotism of Sir Leicester Dedlock), because you can't provide 
for Noodle ! 

On the other hand, the Right Honourable William Buffy, M.P., 
contends across the table with some one else, that the shipwreck of 
the country — about which there is no doubt ; it is only the man- 
ner of it that is in question — is attributable to Cuffy. If you 
had done with Cuffy what you ought to have done when he first 
came into Parliament, and had prevented him from going over to 
Duffy, you would have got him into alliance with Fuffy, you would 
have had with you the weight attaching as a smart debater to 
Guffy, you would have brought to bear upon the elections the wealth 



I 



BLEAK HOUSE. 149 

of Huffy, you would have got in for three counties Juffy, Kuffy, and 
Luffy ; and you would have strengthened your administration by the 
official knowledge and the business habits of Muffy. All this, in- 
stead of being, as you now are, dependent on the mere caprice of 
Puffy ! 

As to this point, and as to some minor topics, there are differ- 
ences of opinion ; but it is perfectly clear to the brilliant and dis- 
tinguished circle, all round, that nobody is in question but Boodle 
and his retinue, and Buffy and his retinue. These are the great 
actors for whom the stage is reserved. A People there are, no 
doubt — a certain large number of supernumeraries, who are to be 
occasionally addressed, and relied upon for shouts and choruses, as 
on the theatrical stage ; but Boodle and Buffy, their followers and 
families, their heirs, executors, administrators, and assigns, are the 
born first-actors, managers, and leaders, and no others can appear 
upon the scene for ever and ever. 

In this, too, there is perhaps more Dandyism at Chesney Wold 
than the brilliant and distinguished circle will find good for itself 
in the long run. For it is, even with the stillest and politest circles, 
as with the circle the necromancer draws around him — very strange 
appearances may be seen in active motion outside. With this dif- 
ference : that, being realities and not phantoms, there is the greater 
danger of their breaking in. 

Chesney Wold is quite full, anyhow ; so full, that a burning 
sense of injury arises in the breasts of ill-lodged ladies'-maids, and 
is not to be extinguished. Only one room is empty. It is a turret 
chamber of the third order of merit, plainly but comfortably fur- 
nished, and having an old-fashioned business air. It is Mr. Tulk- 
inghorn's room, and is never bestowed on anybody else, for he may 
come at any time. He is not come yet. It is his quiet habit to 
walk across the park from the village, in fine weather ; to drop into 
this room, as if .lie had never been out of it since he was last seen 
there ; to request a servant to inform Sir Leicester that he is arrived, 
in case he should be wanted ; and to appear ten minutes before din- 
ner, in the shadow of the library-door. He sleeps in his turret, 
with a complaining flag-staff over his head ; and has some leads 
outside, on which, any fine morning when he is down here, his 
black figiu'e may be seen walking before breakfast like a larger 
species of rook. 

Every day before dinner, my Lady looks for him in the dusk of 
the library, but he is not there. Every day at dinner, my Lady 
glances down the table for the vacant place, that would be waiting 
to receive him if he had just arrived ; but there is no vacant place. 
Every night, my Lady casually asks her maid : 



150 . BLEAK HOUSE. 

" Is Mr. Tulkinghorn come 1 " 

Every uight the answer is, " No, my Lady, not yet." 

One night, while having her hair undressed, my Lady loses her- 
self in deep thought after this reply, until she sees her own brood- 
ing face in the opposite glass, and a pair of black eyes curiously 
observing her. 

"Be so good as to attend," says my Lady then, addressing the 
reflection of Hortense, " to your business. You can contemplate 
your beauty at another time." 

" Pardon ! It was your Ladyship's beauty." 

" That," says my Lady, " you needn't contemplate at all." 

At length, one afternoon a little before sunset, when the bright 
groups of figures, which have for the last hour or two enlivened 
the Ghost's Walk, are all dispersed, and only Sir Leicester and my 
Lady remain upon the terrace, Mr. Tulkinghorn appears. He comes 
towards them at his usual methodical pace, which is never quick- 
ened, never slackened. He wears his usual expressionless mask — 
if it be a mask — and carries family secrets in every limb of his 
body, and every crease of his dress. Whether his whole soul is 
devoted to the great, or whether he yields them nothing beyond the 
services he sells, is his personal secret. He keeps it, as he keeps 
the secrets of his clients ; he is his own client in that matter, and 
will never betray himself. 

" How do you do, Mr. Tulkinghorn ? " says Sir Leicester, giving 
him his hand. 

Mr. Tulkinghorn is quite well. Sir Leicester is quite well. My 
Lady is quite well. All highly satisfactory. The lawyer, with his 
hands behind him, walks, at Sir Leicester's side, along the terrace. 
My Lady walks upon the other side. 

" We expected you before," says Sir Leicester. A gracious 
observation. As much as to say, " Mr. Tulkinghorn, we remember 
your existence when you are not here to remind us of it by your 
presence. We bestow a fragment of our minds upon you, sir, you 
see ! " 

Mr. Tulkinghorn, comprehending it, inclines his head, and says 
he is much obliged. 

"I should have come down sooner," he explains, "but that I 
have been much engaged with those matters in the several suits 
between yourself and Boy thorn." 

"A man of a very ill-regulated mind," observes Sir Leicester, 
with severity. " An extremely dangerous person in any community. 
A man of a very low character of mind." 

" He is obstinate," says Mr. Tulkinghorn. 

" It is natural to such a man to be so," says Sir Leicester, look- 



BLEAK HOUSE. 151 

ing most profoundly obstinate himself. "I am not at all surprised 
to hear it." 

"The only question is," pursues the lawyer, "whether you will 
give up anything." 

" No, sir," replies Sir Leicester. " Nothing. / give up ? " 

" I don't mean anything of importance. That, of course, I 
know you would not abandon. I mean any minor point." 

" Mr. Tulkinghorn," returns Sir Leicester, " there can be no minor 
point between myself and Mr. Boythorn. If I go farther, and 
observe that I cannot readily conceive how any right of mine can 
be a minor point, I speak not so much in reference to myself as an 
individual, as in reference to the family position I have it in charge 
to maintain." 

Mr. Tulkinghorn inclines his head again. " I have now my 
instmctions," he says. " Mr. Boythorn will give us a good deal 
of trouble — " 

"It is the character of such a mind, Mr. Tulkinghorn," Sir 
Leicester interrupts him, " to give trouble. An exceedingly ill- 
conditioned, levelling person. A person who, fifty years ago, would 
probably have been tried at the Old Bailey for some demagogue 
proceeding, and severely punished — if not," adds Sir Leicester, 
after a moment's pause, " if not hanged, drawn, and quartered." 

Sir Leicester appears to discharge his stately breast of a burden, 
in passing this capital sentence ; as if it were the next satisfactory 
thing to having the sentence executed. 

" But night is coming on," says he, " and my Lady will take cold. 
My dear, let us go in." 

As they turn towards the hall-door. Lady Dedlock addresses 
Mr. Tulkinghorn for the first time. 

"You sent me a message respecting the person whose writing I 
happened to inquire about. It was like you to remember the cir- 
cumstance ; I had quite forgotten it. Your message reminded me 
of it again. I can't imagine what association I had, with a hand 
like that ; but I surely had some." 

" You had some % " Mr. Tulkinghorn repeats. 

" yes ! " returns my Lady, carelessly. " I think I must have 
had some. And did you really take the trouble to find out the 
writer of that actual thing — what is it ! — Affidavit ? " 

" Yes." 

" How very odd ! " 

They pass into a sombre breakfast-room on the ground-floor, 
lighted in the day by two deep windows. It is now twilight. 
The fire glows brightly on the panelled wall, and palely on the 
window-glass, where, through the cold reflection of the blaze, the 



152 BLEAK HOUSE. 

colder landscape shudders in the wind, and a grey mist creeps 
along : the only traveller besides the waste of clouds. 

My Lady lounges in a great chair in the chimney-corner, and Sir 
Leicester takes another great chair opposite. The lawyer stands 
before the fire, with his hand out at arm's length, shading his face. 
He looks across his arm at my Lady. 

"Yes," he says, "I inquired about the man, and found him. 
And, what is very strange, I found him — " 

" Not to be any out-of-the-way person, I am afraid ! " Lady 
Dedlock languidly anticipates. 

" I found him dead." 

" dear me ! " remonstrated Sir Leicester. Not so much shocked 
by the fact, as by the fact of the fact being mentioned. 

" I was directed to his lodging — a miserable, poverty-stricken 
place — and I found him dead." 

" You will excuse me, Mr. Tulkinghom," observes Sir Leicester. 
" I think the less said — " 

" Pray, Sir Leicester, let me hear the story out " (it is my Lady 
speaking). "It is quite a story for twilight. How very shock- 
ing ! Dead 1 " 

Mr. Tulkinghorn re-asserts it by another inclination of his head. 
" Whether by his own hand — " 

" Upon my honour ! " cries Sir Leicester. " Really ! " 

" Do let me hear the story ! " says my Lady. 

" Whatever you desire, my dear. But, I must say — " 

" No, you mustn't say ! Go on, Mr. Tulkinghorn." 

Sir Leicester's gallantry concedes the point ; though he still feels 
that to bring this sort of squalor among the upper classes is really 
— really — 

"I was about to say," resumes the lawyer, with undisturbed 
calmness, " that whether he had died by his own hand or not, it 
was beyond my power to tell you. I should amend that phrase, 
however, by saying that he had unquestionably died of his own 
act ; though whether by his own deliberate intention, or by mis- 
chance, can never certainly be known. The Coroner's jury found 
that he took the poison accidentally." 

"And what kind of man," my Lady asks, "was this deplorable 
creature 1 " 

"Very difficult to say," returns the lawyer, shaking his head. 
" He had lived so wretchedly, and was so neglected, with his gipsy 
colour, and his wUd black hair and beard, that I should have con- 
sidered him the commonest of the common. The surgeon had a 
notion that he had once been something better, both in appearance 
and condition," 



I 



BLEAK HOUSE. 153 

" What did they call the wretched being? " 

" They called him what he had called himself, but no one knew 
his name." 

" Not even any one who had attended on him ? " 

" No one had attended on him. He was found dead. In fact, 
I found him." 

" Without any clue to anything more ? " 

"Without any; there was," says the lawyer, meditatively, "an 
old portmanteau; but — No, there were no papers." 

During the utterance of every word of this short dialogue. Lady 
Dedlock and Mr. Tulkinghorn, without any other alteration in their 
customary deportment, have looked very steadily at one another — 
as was natural, perhaps, in the discussion of so unusual a subject. 
Sir Leicester has looked at the fire, with the general expression of 
the Dedlock on the staircase. The story being told, he renews his 
stately protest, saying, that as it is quite clear that no association 
in my Lady's mind can possibly be traceable to this poor wretch 
(unless he was a begging-letter writer), he trusts to hear no more 
about a subject so far removed from my Lady's station. 

" Certainly, a collection of horrors," says my Lady, gathering up 
her mantles and furs ; " but they interest one for the moment ! 
Have the kindness, Mr. Tulkinghorn, to open the door for me." 

Mr. Tulkinghorn does so with deference, and holds it open while 
she passes out. She passes close to him, with her usual fatigued 
manner, and insolent grace. They meet again at dinner — again, 
next day — again, for many days in succession. Lady Dedlock is 
always the same exhausted deity, surrounded by worshippers, and 
terribly liable to be bored to death, even while presiding at her 
own shrine. Mr. Tulkinghorn is always the same speechless 
repository of noble confidences : so oddly out of place, and yet so 
perfectly at home. They appear to take as little note of one 
another, as any two people, enclosed within the same walls, could. 
But, whether each evermore watches and suspects the other, ever- 
more mistrastful of some great reservation ; whether each is ever- 
more prepared at all points for the other, and never to be taken 
unawares; what each would give to know how much the other 
knows — aU this is hidden, for the time, in their own hearts. 



164 BLEAK HOUSE. 

CHAPTER XIII. 

Esther's narrative. 

We held many consultations about what Richard was to be ; 
first, without Mr. Jarndyce, as he had requested, and afterwards 
with him ; but it was a long time before we seemed to make prog- 
ress. Richard said he was ready for anything. When Mr. Jarn- 
dyce doubted whether he might not already be too old to enter the 
Navy, Richard said he had thought of that, and perhaps he was. 
When Mr. Jarndyce asked him what he thought of the Army, 
Richard said he had thought of that, too, and it wasn't a bad idea. 
When Mr. Jarndyce advised him to try and decide within himself, 
whether his old preference for the sea was an ordinary boyish incli- 
nation, or a strong impulse, Richard answered. Well, he really liad 
tried very often, and he couldn't make out. 

" How much of this indecision of character," Mr. Jarndyce said 
to me, "is chargeable on that incomprehensible heap of uncertainty 
and procrastination on which he has been thrown from his birth, I 
don't pretend to say; but that Ohanceiy, among its other sins, is 
responsible for some of it, I can plainly see. It has engendered or' 
confirmed in him a habit of putting off — and trusting to this, that, 
and the other chance, without knowing what chance — • and dismiss- 
ing everything as unsettled, uncertain, and confused. The char- 
acter of much older and steadier people may be even changed by 
the circumstances surrounding them. It would be too much to 
expect that a boy's, in its formation, should be the subject of such 
influences, and escape them." 

I felt this to be tnie ; though, if I may venture to mention whati 
I thought besides, I thought it much to be regi'etted that Richard's 
education had not counteracted those influences, or directed his 
character. He had been eight years at a public school, and had 
learnt, I understood, to make Latin Verses of several sorts, in the 
most admirable manner. But I never heard that it had been any- 
body's business to find out what his natural bent was, or where hia 
failings lay, or to adapt any kind of knowledge to him. He had 
been adapted to the Verses, and had learnt the art of making theifl 
to such perfection, that if he had remained at school until he was 
of age, I suppose he could only have gone on making them over 
and over again, unless he had enlarged his education by forgetting] 
how to do it. Still, although I had no doubt that they were' 
very beautiful, and very improving, and very sufiicient for a greati 
many purposes of life, and always remembered all through life, 
I did doubt whether Richard would not have profited by some 



1 



BLEAK HOUSE. 155 

one studying him a little, instead of his studying them quite so 
much. 

To be sure, I knew nothing of the subject, and do not even now 
know whether the young gentlemen of classic Rome or Greece made 
verses to the same extent — or whether the young gentlemen of 
any countiy ever did. 

"I haven't the least idea," said Richard, musing, "what I had 
better be. Except that I am quite sure I don't want to go into 
the Church, it's a toss-up." 

" You have no inclination in Mr. Kenge's way ? " suggested Mr. 
Jarudyce. 

" I don't know that, sir ! " replied Richard. "I am fond of 
boating. Articled clerks go a good deal on the water. It's a cap- 
ital profession ! " 

" Surgeon — " suggested Mr. Jarndyce. 

" That's the thing, sir ! " cried Richard. 

I doubt if he had ever once thought of it before. 

" That's the thing, sir ! " repeated Richard, with the greatest 
enthusiasm. " We have got it at last. M.R.C.S. ! " 

He was not to be laughed out of it, though he laughed at it 
heartily. He said he had chosen his profession, and the more he 
thought of it, the more he felt that his destiny was clear ; the art 
of healing was the art of all others for him. Mistrusting that he 
only came to this conclusion, because, having never had much 
chance of finding out for himself what he was fitted for, and having 
never been guided to the discovery, he was taken by the newest 
idea, and was glad to get rid of the trouble of consideration, I 
wondered whether the Latin Verses often ended in this, or whether 
Richard's was a solitaiy case. 

Mr. Jarndyce took great jjains to talk with him, seriously, and 
to put it to his good sense not to deceive himself in so important a 
matter. Richard was a little grave after these interviews ; but 
invariably told Ada and me " that it was all right," and then began 
to talk about something else. 

"By Heaven!" cried Mr. Boy thorn, who interested himself 
strongly in the subject — though I need not say that, for he could 
do nothing weakly ; "I rejoice to find a young gentleman of spirit 
and gallantry devoting himself to that noble profession ! The more 
spirit there is in it, the better for mankind, and the worse for those 
mercenary taskmasters and low tricksters who delight in putting 
tliat illustrious art at a disadvantage in the world. By all that is 
base and despicable," cried Mr. Boy thorn, "the treatment of Sur- 
geons aboard ship is such, that I would submit the legs — both 
legs — of every member of the Admiralty Board to a compound 



1 



156 BLEAK HOUSE. 

fracture, and render it a transportable offence in any qualified prac- 
titioner to set them, if the system were not wholly changed in 
eight-and-forty hours ! " 

" Wouldn't you give them a week ? " asked Mr. Jarndyce. 

" No ! " cried Mr. Boy thorn, firmly. " Not on any considera- 
tion ! Eight-and-forty hours ! As to Corporations, Parishes, Ves- 
try-Boards, and similar gatherings of jolter-headed clods, who 
assemble to exchange such speeches that, by Heaven ! they ought 
to be worked in quicksilver mines for the short remainder of their 
miserable existence, if it were only to prevent their detestable 
English from contaminating a language spoken in the presence of 
the Sun — as to those fellows, who meanly take advantage of the 
ardour of gentlemen in the pursuit of knowledge, to recompense 
the inestimable services of the best years of their lives, their long 
study, and their expensive education, with pittances too small for 
the acceptance of clerks, I would have the necks of every one of 
them wnmg, and their skulls arranged in Surgeons' Hall for the 
contemplation of the whole profession — in order that its younger 
members might understand from actual measurement, in early lift 
how thick skulls may become ! " 

He wound up this vehement declaration by looking round upon 
us with a most agreeable smile, and suddenly thundering, Ha, ha, 
ha ! over and over again, until anybody else might have been expected 
to be quite subdued by the exertion. 

As Richard still continued to say that he was fixed in his choice, 
after repeated periods for consideration had been recommended by 
Mr. Jarndyce, and had expired ; and as he still continued to assure 
Ada and me, in the same final manner, that it was " all right ; 
it became advisable to take Mr. Kenge into council. Mr. Kengi 
therefore, came down to dinner one day, and leaned back in his 
chair, and turned his eye-glasses over and over, and spoke in a 
sonorous voice, and did exactly what I remembered to have sei 
him do when I was a little girl. 

" Ah ! " said Mr. Kenge. " Yes. Well ! A veiy good profei 
sion, Mr. Jarndyce; a veiy good profession." 

" The course of study and preparation requires to be diligentl; 
pursued," observed my Guardian, with a glance at Richard. 

"0, no doubt," said Mr. Kenge. "Diligently." 

" But that being the case, more or less, with all pursuits tha^ 
are worth much," said Mr. Jarndyce, "it is not a special consider- 
ation which another choice would be likely to escape." 

" Truly," said Mr. Kenge. "And Mr. Richard Carstone, who 
has so meritoriously acquitted himself in the — shall I say the 
classic shades? — in which his youth had been passed, will, no 



II 



BLEAK HOUSE. 157 

doubt, apply the habits, if not the principles and practice, of versi- 
fication in that tongue in which a poet was said (unless I mistake) 
to be born, not made, to the more eminently practical field of 
action on which he enters." 

"You may rely upon it," said Richard, in his off-hand manner, 
"that I shall go at it, and do my best." 

" Very well, Mr. Jarndyce ! " said Mr. Kenge, gently nodding 
his head. " Really, when we are assured by Mr. Richard that 
he means to go at it, and to do his best," nodding feelingly and 
smoothly over those expressions ; "I would submit to you, that 
we have only to inquire into the best mode of carrying out the 
object of his ambition. Now, with reference to placing Mr. 
Richard with some sufficiently eminent j^ractitioner. Is there any 
one in view at present ? " 

" No one. Rick, I think 1 " said my Guardian. 

" No one, sir," said Richard. 

" Quite so ! " observed Mr. Kenge. " As to situation, now. Is 
there any particular feeling on that head 1 " 

"N — -no," said Richard. 

" Quite so ! " observed Mr. Kenge again. 

" I should like a little variety," said Richard ; " — I mean a 
good range' of experience." 

"Very requisite, no doubt," returned Mr. Kenge. "I think 
this may be easily arranged, Mr. Jarndyce? We have only, in 
the first place, to discover a sufficiently eligible practitioner ; and, 
as soon as we make our want — and, shall I add, our ability to 
pay a premium 1 — known, our only difficulty will be in the selec- 
tion of one from a large number. We have only, in the second 
place, to observe those little formalities which are rendered neces- 
sary by our time of life, and our being under the guardianship of 
the Court. We shall soon be — shall I say, in Mr. Richard's own 
liglit-hearted manner, ' going at it ' — to our heart's content. It 
is a coincidence," said Mr. Kenge, with a tinge of melancholy in 
his smile, " one of those coincidences which may or may not require 
an explanation beyond our present limited faculties, that I have 
a cousin in the medical profession. He might be deemed eligible 
by you, and might be disposed to respond to this proposal. I can 
answer for him as little as for you ; but he might ! " 

As this was an opening in the prospect, it was arranged that 
Mr. Kenge should see his cousin. And as Mr. Jarndyce had be- 
fore i^roposed to take us to London for a few weeks, it was settled 
next day that we should make our visit at once, and combine 
Richard's business with it. 

Mr. Boythorn leaving us within a week, we took up our abode 




1 f-l 



# - ^ — ' - 



J J 




MR. GUPPy'S DESOLATION. 



BLEAK HOUSE. 159 

at a clieerful lodging near Oxford Street, over an upholsterer's 
sliop. L(indon was a great wonder to us, and we were out for 
hours and hours at a time, seeing the sights ; which appeared to 
be less capable of exhaustion than we were. We made the round 
of the principal theatres, too, with great delight, and saw all the 
plays that were worth seeing. I mention this, because it was at 
the theatre that I began to be made uncomfortable again, by Mr. 
Guppy. 

I was sitting in front of the box one night with Ada ; and 
Richard was in the place he liked best, behind Ada's chair ; when, 
happening to look down into the pit, I saw Mr. Gruppy, Avith his 
hair flattened down upon his head, and woe depicted in his face, 
looking up at me. I felt, all through the performance, that he 
never looked at the actors, but constantly looked at me, and always 
Avith a carefully prepared expression of the deepest misery and the 
profoundest dejection. 

It quite spoiled my pleasure for that night, because it was so 
very embarrassing and so very ridiculous. But, from that time 
forth, we never went to the play, without my seeing Mr. Guppy 
in the pit, always with his liair straight and flat, his shirt-collar 
turned down, and a general feebleness about him. If he were not 
there when we went in, and I began to hojDe he would not come, 
and yielded myself for a little while to the interest of the scene, 
I was certain to encounter his languishing eyes when I least ex- 
pected it, and, from that time, to be quite sure that they were 
fixed upon me all the evening. 

I really cannot express how uneasy this made me. If he would 
only have brushed up his hair, or turned up his collar, it would 
have been bad enough ; but to know that that absurd figure was 
always gazing at me, and always in that demonstrative state of 
despondency, put such a constraint upon me that I did not like 
to laugh at the play, or to cry at it, or to move, or to speak. I 
seemed able to do nothing naturally. As to escaping Mr. Guppy 
by going to the back of the box, I could not bear to do that ; be- 
cause I knew Richard and Ada relied on having me next them, 
and that they could never have talked together so happily if any- 
body else had been in my place. So there I sat, not knowing 
where to look — for wherever I looked, I knew Mr. Guppy's eyes 
were following me — and thinking of the dreadful expense to which 
this young man was putting himself, on my account. 

Sometimes I thought of telling Mr. Jarndyce. Then I feared 
that the young man would lose his situation, and that I might ruin 
him. Sometimes I thought of confiding in Richard ; but was de- 
terred by the possibility of his fighting Mr. Guppy, and giving him 



160 BLEAK HOUSE. 

black eyes. Sometimes, I thought, should I frown at him, or 
shake my head. Then I felt I could not do it. Sometimes, I con- 
sidered whether I should write to his mother, but that ended in 
my being convinced that to open a correspondence would be to 
make the matter worse. I always came to the conclusion, finally, 
that I could do nothing. Mr. Guppy's perseverance, all this time, 
not only produced him regularly at any theatre to which we went, 
but caused him to appear in the crowd as we were coming out, and 
even to get up behind our fly — where I am sure I saw him, two 
or three times, struggling among the most dreadful spikes. After 
we got home, he haunted a post opposite our house. The ujDhol- 
sterer's where we lodged, being at the corner of two streets, and 
my bedroom window being opposite the post, I was afraid to go 
near the window when I went up-stairs, lest I should see him (as I 
did one moonlight night) leaning against the post, and evidentlva 
catching cold. If Mr. Guppy had not been, fortunately for me, 
engaged in the day-time, I really should have had no rest frona 
him. 

While we were making this round of gaieties, in which Mr 
Guppy so extraordinarily -participated, the business which hac 
helped to bring us to town was not neglected. Mr. Kenge's cousii 
was a Mr. Bayham Badger, who had a good practice at Chelseaj 
and attended a large public Institution besides. He was quiti 
willing to receive Richard into his house, and to superintend hi! 
studies ; and as it seemed that those could be pursued advan- 
tageously under Mr. Badger's roof, and as Mr. Badger likec 
Richard, and as Richard said he liked Mr. Badger " well enough,' 
an agreement was made, the Lord Chancellor's consent was ob 
tained, and it was all settled. 

On the day when matters were concluded between Richard anc 
Mr. Badger, we were all under engagement to dine at Mr. Badger'i 
house. We were to be " merely a family party," Mrs. Badger'j 
note said ; and we found no lady there but Mrs. Badger herself 
She was surrounded in the drawing-room by various objects, indica 
tive of her painting a little, playing the piano a little, playing th< 
guitar a. little, playing the harp a little, singing a little, working i 
little, reading a little, writing poetry a little, and botanising 
little. She was a lady of about fifty, I should think, youthful! 
dressed, and of a very fine complexion. If I add, to the little lisi 
of her accomplishments, that she rouged a little, I do not mea; 
that there was any harm in it. 

Mr. Bayham Badger himself was a pink, fresh-faced, crisp-loo' 
ing gentleman, with a weak voice, white teeth, light hair, and su 
prised eyes : some years younger, I should say, than Mrs. Bayha: 



mi 



BLEAK HOUSE. 161 

Badger. He admired her exceedingly, but principally, and to begin 
with, on the curious ground (as it seemed to us) of her having had 
three husbands. We had barely taken our seats, when he said to 
Mr. Jarndyce quite triumphantly, 

" You would hardly suppose that I am Mrs. Bayham Badger's 
third ! " 

" Indeed f " said Mr. Jarndyce. 

" Her third ! " said Mr. Badger. " Mrs. Bayham Badger has 
not the appearance. Miss Summerson, of a lady who has had two 
former husbands ? " 

I said " Not at all ! " 

" And most remarkable men ! " said Mr. Badger, in a tone of 
confidence. " Captain Swosser of the Royal Navy, who was Mrs. 
Badger's first husband, was a very distinguished officer indeed. 
The name of Professor Dingo, my immediate predecessor, is one of 
European reputation." 

Mrs. Badger overheard him, and smiled. 

" Yes, my dear ! " ' Mr. Badger replied to the smile, " I was 
observing to Mr. Jarndyce and Miss Summerson, that you had had 
two former husbands — both very distinguished men. And they 
found it, as people generally do, difficult to believe." 

" I was barely twenty," said Mrs. Badger, " Avhen I married 
Captain Swosser of the Royal Navy. I was in the Mediterranean 
with him ; I am quite a Sailor. On the twelfth anniversary of 
my wedding-day, I became the wife of Professor Dingo." 

(" Of European reputation," added Mr. Badger in an under- 
tone.) 

" And when Mr. Badger and myself were married," pursued 
Mrs. Badger, " we were married on the same day of the year. I 
had become attached to the day." 

" So that Mrs. Badger has been married to three husbands — 
two of them highly distinguished men," said Mr. Badger, summing 
up the facts ; " and, each time, upon the twenty-first of March at 
Eleven in the forenoon ! " 

We all expressed our admiration. 

" But for Mr. Badger's modesty," said Mr. Jarndyce, " I would 
take leave to correct him, and say three distinguished men." 

" Thank you, Mr. Jarndyce ! What I always tell him ! " 
observed Mrs. Badger. 

*' And, my dear," said Mr. Badger, " what do / always tell you ? 
That without any aftectation of disparaging such professional dis- 
-tinction as I may have attained (which our friend Mr. Carstone 
will have many opportunities of estimating), I am not so weak — 
ao, really," said Mr. Badger to us generally, " so unreasonable — 

M 



162 BLEAK HOUSE. 

as to put my reputation on the same footing with such first-rate 
men as Captain Swosser and Professor Dingo. Perhaps you may 
be interested, Mr. Jarndyce," continued Mr. Bayham Badger, lead- 
ing the way into the next drawing-room, "in this portrait of Cap- 
tain Swosser. It was taken on his return home from the African 
Station, where he had suffered from the fever of the countiy. 
Mrs. Badger considers it too yellow. But it's a very fine head. 
A very fine head ! " 

We all echoed " A very fine head ! " 

"I feel when I look at it," said Mr. Badger, " 'that's a man I 
should like to have seen ! ' It strikingly bespeaks the first-class 
man that Captain Swosser pre-eminently Avas. On the other side, 
Professor Dingo. I knew him well — attended him in his last ill- 
ness — a speaking likeness ! Over the piano, Mrs. Bayham Badger 
when Mrs. Swosser. Over the sofa, Mrs. Bayham Badger when 
Mrs. Dingo. Of Mrs. Bayham Badger in esse, I possess the 
original, and have no copy." 

Dinner was now announced, and we went down-stairs. It was 
a very genteel entertainment, veiy handsomely served. But the 
Captain and the Professor still ran in Mr. Badger's head, and, as 
Ada and I had the honour of being under his particular care, we 
had the full benefit of them. 

" Water, Miss Summerson 1 Allow me ! Not in that tumbler, 
pray. Bring me the Professor's goblet, James ! " 

Ada very much admired some artificial flowers, under a glass. 

" Astonishing how they keep ! " said Mr. Badger. " They were 
presented to Mrs. Bayham Badger when she was in the Mediterra- 
nean." , 

He invited Mr. Jarndyce to take a glass of claret. 

" Not that claret ! " he said. " Excuse me ! This is an occa 
sion, and on an occasion I produce some very special claret 
happen to have. (James, Captain Swosser's wine !) Mr. Jarn 
dyce, this is a wine that was imported by the Captain, we will no 
say how many years ago. You will find it very curious. My dear 
I shall be happy to take some of this wine with you. (Captah 
Swosser's claret to your mistress, James !) My love, your health 

After dinner, when we ladies retired, we took Mrs. Badger's firsi 
and second husband with us. Mrs. Badger gave us, in the draw 
ing-room, a Biographical sketch of the life and services of Captaii 
Swosser before his marriage, and a more minute account of hi 
dating from the time when he fell in love with her, at a baU o: 
board the Crippler, given to the officers of that ship when she la; 
in Plymouth Harbour. 

" The dear old Crippler ! " said Mrs. Badger, shaking her head, 






il 



^^ 1 




THE TAMILV PORTRAITS AT MR. BAVHAM BADGKR's. 



164 BLEAK HOUSE. 

" She was a noble vessel. Trim, ship-shape, all a taunto, as Cap- 
tain Swosser used to say. You must excuse me if I occasionally 
introduce a nautical expression ; I was quite a sailor once. Cap- 
tain Swosser loved that craft for my sake. When she was no 
longer in commission, he frequently said that if he were rich 
enough to buy her old hulk, he would have an inscription let into 
the timbers of the quarter-deck where we stood as partners in the 
dance, to mark the spot where he fell — raked fore and aft (Cap- 
tain Swosser used to say) by the fire from my tops. It was his 
naval way of mentioning my eyes." 

Mrs. Badger shook her head, sighed, and looked in the glass. 

"It was a great change from Captain Swosser to Professor 
Dingo," she resumed, with a plaintive smile. "I felt it a good 
deal at first. Such an entire revolution in my mode of life ! But 
custom, combined with science — particularly science — inured me 
to it. Being the Professor's sole companion in his botanical excur- 
sions, I almost forgot that I had ever been afloat, and became 
quite learned. It is singular that the Professor was the Antipodes 
of Captain Swosser, and that Mr. Badger is not in the least like ■ 
either ! " " 

We then passed into a narrative of the deaths of Captain 
Swosser and Professor Dingo, both of whom seemed to have had 
veiy bad complaints. In the course of it, Mrs. Badger signified to 
us that she had never madly loved but once ; and that the object 
of that wild aff"ection, never to be recalled in its fresh enthusiasm, 
was Captain Swosser. The Professor was yet dying by inches in 
the most dismal manner, and Mrs. Badger was giving us imitations 
of his way of saying, with great difiiculty, " Where is Laura 1 
Let Laura give me my toast and water ! " when the entrance of 
the gentlemen consigned him to the tomb. 

Now, I observed that evening, as I had observed for some days 
past, that Ada and Richard were more than ever attached to each 
other's society ; which was but natural, seeing that they were 
going to be separated so soon. I was therefore not very much 
surprised, when we got home, and Ada and I retired up-stairs, to 
find Ada more silent than usual ; though I was not quite prepared 
for her coming into my arms, and beginning to speak to me, with 
her face hidden. 

" My darling Esther ! " murmured Ada. " I have a great secret 
to tell you ! " 

A mighty secret, my pretty one, no doubt ! 

"What is it, Ada?" 

" Esther, you would never guess ! " 

" Shall I tiy to guess 1 " said I. 



BLEAK HOUSE. 165 

" no ! Don't ! Pray, don't ! " cried Ada, very much startled 
by the idea of my doing so. 

" Now, I wonder who it can be about 1 " said I, pretending to 
consider. 

" It's about," said Ada, in a whisper. " It's about — my cousin 
Richard ! " 

" Well, my own ! " said I, kissing her bright hair, which was 
all I could see. " And what about him 1 " 

" Esther, you would never guess ! " 

It was so pretty to have her clinging to me in that way, hiding 
her face ; and to know that she was not crying in sorrow, but in 
a little glow of joy, and pride, and hope ; that I would not help 
her just yet. 

"He says — I know it's very foolish, we are both so young — 
but he says," with a burst of tears, "that he loves me dearly, 
Estlier." 

"Does he indeed?" said I. "I never heard of such a thing! 
Why, my pet of pets, I could have told you that, weeks and weeks 
ago ! " 

To see Ada lift up her flushed face in joyful surprise, and hold 
me round the neck, and laugh, and cry, and blush, and laugh, was 
so pleasant ! 

" Why, my darling ! " said I, " what a goose you must take me 
for ! Your cousin Richard has been loving you as plainly as he 
could, for I don't know how long ! " 

" And yet you never said a word about it ! " cried Ada, kissing 
me. 

" No, my love," said I. " I waited to be told." 

" But now I have told you, you don't think it wrong of me ; 
do you ? " returned Ada. She might have coaxed me to say No, 
if I had been the hardest-hearted Duenna in the world. Not being 
that yet, I said No, very freely. 

"And now," said I, "I know the worst of it." 

" 0, that's not quite the worst of it, Esther dear ! " cried Ada, 
holding me tighter, and laying down her face again upon my 
breast. 

" No ? " said I. " Not even that ? " 

" No, not even that ! " said Ada, shaking her head. 

"Why, you never mean to say — ! " I was beginning in joke. 

But Ada, looking up, and smiling through her tears, cried, "Yes, 
I do ! You know, you know I do !" and then sobbed out, "With 
all my heart I do ! With all my whole heart, Esther ! " 

I told her, laughing, why I had known that, too, just as well 
as I had known the other ! And we sat before the fire, and I had 



166 BLEAK HOUSE. 

all the talking to myself for a little while (though there was not 
much of it) ; and Ada was soon quiet and ha^Dpy. 

" Do you think my cousin Jolni knows, dear Dame Durdeu ? " 
she asked. 

"Unless my cousin John is blind, my pet," said I, "I should 
think my cousin John knows pretty well as much as we know." 

"We want to speak to him before Richard goes," said Ada, 
timidly, "and we wanted you to advise us, and to tell him so. 
Perhaps you wouldn't mind Richard's coming in. Dame Durden ? " 

"0 ! Richard is outside, is he, my dear?" said I. 

" I am not quite certain," returned Ada, with a bashful simplicity 
that would have won my heart, if she had not won it long before ; 
"but I think he's waiting at the door." 

There he was, of course. They brought a chair on either side 
of me, and put me between them, and really seemed to have fallen 
in love with me, instead of one another ; they were so confiding, 
and so trustful, and so fond of me. They went on in their own 
wild way for a little while — / never stopped them; I enjoyed 
it too much myself — and then we gradually fell to considering 
how young they were, and how there must be a lapse of several 
years before this early love could come to anything, and how it 
could come to happiness only if it were real and lasting, and inspired 
them with a steady resolution to do their duty to eacli other, with 
constancy, fortitude, and perseverance : each always for the other's 
sake. Well ! Richard said that he would work his fingers to the 
bone for Ada, and Ada said that she would work her fingers to the 
bone for Richard, and they called me all sorts of endearing and 
sensible names, and w:e sat there, advising and talking, half the 
night. Finally, before we parted, I gave them my promise to speak 
to their cousin John to-morrow. 

So, when to-morrow came, I went to my Guardian after break- 
fast, in the room that was our town-substitute for the Growlery, 
and told him that I had it in trust to tell him something. 

"Well, little woman," said he, shutting up his book, "if you 
have accepted the trust, there can be no harm in it." 

" I hope not. Guardian," said I. " I can guarantee that there 
is no secrecy in it. For it only happened yesterday." 

" Aye ? And what is it, Esther 1 " 

"Guardian," said I, "you remember the happy night when we 
first came down to Bleak House ? When Ada was singing in the 
dark room ? " 

I wished to call to his remembrance the look, he had given me 
then. Unless I am much mistaken, I saw that I did so. 

"Because," said I, with a little hesitation. 






BLEAK HOUSE. 167 

"Yes, my clear ! " said he. "Don't hurry." 

"Because," said I, "Ada and Richard have fallen in love. And 
have told each other so." 

" Already 1 " cried my Guardian, quite astonished. 

"Yes ! " said I, "and to tell you the truth. Guardian, I rather 
expected it." 

" The deuce you did ! " said he. 

He sat considering for a minute or two ; with his smile, at once 
so handsome and so kind, upon his changing face ; and then re- 
quested me to let them know that he wished to see them. When 
they came, he encircled Ada with one arm, in his fatherly way, and 
addressed himself to Richard with a cheerful gravity. 

"Rick," said Mr. Jarndyce, "I am glad to have won your con- 
fidence. I hope to preserve it. When I contemplated these 
relations between us four which have so brightened my life, and 
so invested it with new interests and pleasures, I certainly did 
contemplate, afar off, the possibility of you and your pretty cousin 
here (don't be shy, Ada, don't be shy, my dear !) being in a mind 
to go through life together. I saw, and do see, many reasons to 
make it desirable. But that was afar off, Rick, afar off ! " 

" We look afar off, sir," returned Richard. 

" Well ! " said Mr. Jarndyce. " That's rational. Now, hear 
me, my dears ! I might tell you that you don't know your own 
minds yet ; that a thousand things may happen to divert you from 
one another ; that it is well this chain of flowers you have taken 
up is very easily broken, or it might become a chain of lead. But 
I Avill not do that. Such wisdom will come soon enough, I dare 
say, if it is to come at all. I will assume that, a few years hence, 
you will be in your hearts to one another, what you are to-day. 
All I say before speaking to you according to that assumption is, 
if you do change — if you do come to find that you are more com- 
monplace cousins to each other as man and woman, than you were 
as boy and girl (your manhood will excuse me. Rick !) — don't 
be ashamed still to confide in me, for there will be nothing mon- 
strous or uncommon in it. I am only your friend and distant 
kinsman. I have no power over you whatever. But I wish and 
hope to retain your confidence, if I do nothing to forfeit it." 

" I am veiy sure, sir," returned Richard, "that I speak for Ada, 
too, when I say that you have the strongest power over us both — 
rooted in respect, gratitude, and affection — strengthening every 
day." 

" Dear cousin John," said Ada, on his shoulder, " my father's 
place can never be empty again. All the love and duty I could 
ever have rendered to him, is transferred to you." 



168 BLEAK HOUSE. 

" Come ! " said Mr. Jamdyce. " Now for our assumption. Now 
we lift our eyes up, and look hopefully at the distance ! Rick, the 
world is before you ; and it is most probable that as you enter it, 
so it will receive you. Trust in nothing but in Providence and your 
own efforts. Never separate the two, like the heathen waggoner. 
Constancy in love is a good thing ; but it means nothing, and is 
nothing, without constancy in every kind of effort. If you had 
the abilities of all the great men, past and present, you could do 
nothing well, without sincerely meaning it, and setting about it. 
If you entertain the supposition that any real success, in great 
things or in small, ever was or could be, ever will or can be, wrested 
from Fortune by fits and starts, leave that wrong idea here, or 
leave your cousin Ada here." 

" I will leave it here, sir," replied Richard, smiling, " if I brought 
it here just now (but I hope I did not), and will work my way on 
to my cousin Ada in the hopeful distance." 

" Right ! " said Mr. Jarndyce. " If you are not to make her 
happy, why should you pursue her 1 " 

"I wouldn't make her unhappy — no, not even for her love," 
retorted Richard, proudly. 

" WeU said ! " cried Mr. Jarndyce ; " that's well said ! She 
remains here, in her home with me. Love her. Rick, in your active 
life, no less than in her home when you revisit it, and all will go 
well. Otherwise, all will go ill. That's the end of my preaching. 
I think you and Ada had better take a walk." 

Ada tenderly embraced him, and Richard heartily shook hands 
with him, and then the cousins went out of the room — looking 
back again directly, though, to say that they would wait for me. 

The door stood open, and we both followed them with our eyes, 
as they passed down the adjoining room on which the sun was 
shining, and out at its farther end. Richard with his head bent, 
and her hand drawn through his arm, was talking to her very 
earnestly ; and she looked up in his face, listening, and seemed to 
see nothing else. So young, so beautiful, so full of hope and 
promise, they went on lightly through the sunlight, as their own 
happy thoughts might then be traversing the years to come, and 
making them all years of brightness. So they passed away into 
the shadow, and were gone. It was only a burst of light that had 
been so radiant. The room darkened as they went out, and the 
sun was clouded over. 

" Am I right, Esther ? " said my Guardian, when they were 
gone. 

He who was so good and wise, to ask me whether he was 
right ! 






BLEAK HOUSE. 169 

" Rick may gain, out of this, the quality he wants. Wants, at 
the core of so much that is good ! " said Mr. Jarndyce, shaking his 
head. " I have said nothing to Ada, Esther. She has her friend 
and counsellor always near." And he laid his hand lovingly upon 
my head. 

I could not help showing that I was a little moved, though I 
did all I could to conceal it. 

" Tut tut ! " said he. " But we must take care, too, that our 
little woman's life is not all consumed in care for others." 

" Care ? My dear Guardian, I believe I am the happiest creature 
in the world ! " 

"I believe so, too," said he. "But some one may find out, 
what Esther never will — that the little woman is to be held in 
remembrance above all other people ! " 

I have omitted to mention in its place, that there was some one 
else at the family dinner party. It was not a lady. It was a 
gentleman. It was a gentleman of a dark complexion — a young 
surgeon. He was rather reserved, but I thought him very sensible 
and agreeable. At least, Ada asked me if I did not, and I said 
yes. 



CHAPTER XIV. 

DEPORTMENT. 

Richard left us on the very next evening, to begin his new 
career, and committed Ada to my charge with great love for her, 
and great trust in me. It touched me then to reflect, and it 
touches me now, more nearly, to remember (having what I have 
to tell) how they both thought of me, even at that engrossing 
time. I was a part of all their plans, for the present and the 
future. I was to write to Richard once a week, making my faithful 
report of Ada, who was to write to him every alternate day. I 
was to be informed, under his own hand, of all his labours and 
successes ; I was to observe how resolute and persevering he would 
be ; I was to be Ada's bridesmaid when they were married ; I was 
to live with them afterwards ; I was to keep all the keys of their 
house ; I was to be made happy for ever and a day. 

" And if the suit should make us rich, Esther — which it may, 
you know ! " said Richard, to crown all. 

A shade crossed Ada's face. 

" My dearest Ada," asked Richard, pausing, "why not ?" 

" It had better declare us poor at once," said Ada. 



170 BLEAK HOUSE. 

" ! I don't know about that," returned Richard; "but, at all 
events, it won't declare anything at once. It hasn't declared any- 
thing in Heaven knows how many years." 

" Too true," said Ada. 

" Yes, but," urged Richard, answering what her look suggested 
rather than her words, " the longer it goes on, dear cousin, the 
nearer it must be to a settlement one way or other. Now, is not 
that reasonable ? " 

"You know best, Richard. But I am afraid if we trust to it, it 
will make us unhappy." 

" But, my Ada, we are not going to trust to it ! " cried Richard 
gaily. " We know it better than to trust to it. We only say that 
if it should make us rich, we have no constitutional objection to 
being rich. The Court is, by solemn settlement of law, our grim 
old guardian, and we are to suppose that what it gives us (when 
it gives us anything) is our right. It is not necessary to quarrel 
with our right." 

" No," said Ada, " but it may be better to forget all about it." 

"Well, well!" cried Richard, "then we will forget all about 
it ! We consign the whole thing to oblivion. Dame Durden puts 
on her approving face, and it's done ! " 

"Dame Durden 's approving face," said I, looking out of the box 
in which I was packing his books, " was not very visible when you 
called it by that name ; but it does approve, and she thinks you 
can't do better." 

So, Richard said there was an end of it, — and immediately 
began, on no other foundation, to build as many castles in the air 
as would man the great wall of China. He went away in high 
spirits. Ada and I, prepared to miss him very much, commenced 
our quieter career. 

On our arrival in London, we had called with Mr. Jarndyce at 
Mrs. Jellyby's, but had not been so fortunate as to find her at 
home. It appeared that she had gone somewhere, to a tea-drinking, 
and had taken Miss Jellyby with her. Besides the tea-drinking, 
there was to be some considerable speech-making and letter-writing 
on the general merits of the cultivation of coffee, conjointly with 
natives, at the Settlement of Borrioboola-Cha. All this involved, 
no doubt, sufficient active exercise of pen and ink, to make her 
daughter's part in the proceedings, anything but a holiday. 

It being, now, beyond the time appointed for Mrs. Jellyby's return, 
we called again. She was in town, but not at home, having gone 
to Mile End, du-ectly after breakfast, on some Borrioboolan busi- 
ness, arising out of a Society called the East London Branch Aid 
Ramification. As I had not seen Peepy on the occasion of our last 






BLEAK HOUSE. 171 

call (when he was not to be found anywhere, and when the cook 
rather thought he must have strolled away with the dustman's 
cart), I now inquired for him again. The oyster shells he had been 
building a house with, were still in the passage, but he was nowhere 
discoverable, and the cook supposed that he had " gone after the 
sheep." When we repeated, with some surprise, "The sheep?" 
she said, yes, on market days he sometimes followed them quite 
out of town, and came back in such a state as never was ! 

I was sitting at the window with my Guardian, on the following 
morning, and Ada was busy writing — of course to Richard — 
when Miss Jellyby was announced, and entered, leading the identical 
Peepy, whom she had made some endeavours to render presentable, 
by wiping the dirt into corners of his face and hands, and making 
his hair very wet and then violently frizzling it with her fingers. 
Everything the dear child wore, was either too large for him or too 
small. Among his other contradictory decorations he had the hat 
of a bishop, and the little gloves of a baby. His boots were, on a 
small scale, the boots of a ploughman : while his legs, so crossed 
and recrossed with scratches that they looked like maps, were bare, 
below a very short pair of plaid drawers finished off with two frills 
of perfectly different patterns. The deficient buttons on his plaid 
frock had evidently been supplied from one of Mr. Jellyby's coats, 
they were so extremely brazen and so much too large. Most ex- 
traordinary specimens of needlework appeared on several parts of 
his dress, where it had been hastily mended ; and I recognised the 
same hand on Miss Jellyby's. She was, however, unaccountably 
improved in her appearance, and looked very pretty. She was 
conscious of poor little Peepy being but a failure after all her 
trouble, and she showed it as she came in, by the way in which she 
glanced, first at him and then at us. 

" dear me ! " said my Guardian, " Due East ! " 

Ada and I gave her a cordial welcome, and presented her to Mr. 
Jarndyce ; to whom she said, as she sat down : 

" Ma's compliments, and she hopes you'll excuse her, because 
she's correcting proofs of the plan. She's going to put out five 
thousand new circulars, and she knows you'll be interested to hear 
that. I have brought one of them with me. Ma's compliments." 
With which she presented it sulkily enough. 

" Thank you," said my Guardian. " I am much obliged to Mrs. 
Jellyby. dear me ! This is a very trying wind ! " 

We were busy with Peepy ; taking off his clerical hat ; asking him 
if he remembered us ; and so on. Peepy retired behind his elbow 
at first, but relented at the sight of sponge-cake, and allowed 
me to take him on my lap, where he sat munching quietly. Mr. 



172 BLEAK HOUSE. 

Jarnclyce then withdrawing into the temporary Growlery, Miss 
Jellyby opened a conversation with her usual abruptness. 

" We are going on just as bad as ever in Thavies Inn," said she. 
" I have no peace of my life. Talk of Africa ! I couldn't be 
worse off if I was a what's-his-name — man and a brother ! " 

I tried to say something soothing. 

" 0, it's of no use, Miss Summerson," exclaimed Miss Jellyby, 
" though I thank you for the kind intention all the same. I know 
how I am used, and I am not to be talked over. You wouldn't be 
talked over, if you were used so. Peepy, go and play at Wild 
Beasts under the piano ! " 

" I shan't ! " said Peepy. 

" Very well, you ungrateful, naughty, hard-hearted boy ! " re- 
turned Miss Jellyby, with tears in her eyes. " I'll never take 
pains to dress you any more." 

" Yes, I will go, Caddy ! " cried Peepy, who was really a good 
child, and who was so moved by his sister's vexation that he went 
at once. 

"It seems a little thing to ciy about," said poor Miss Jellyby, 
apologetically, " but I am quite worn out. I was directing the new 
circulars till two this morning, I detest the whole thing so, that 
that alone makes my head ache till I can't see out of my eyes. 
And look at that poor unfortunate child ! Was there ever such a 
fright as he is ! " 

Peepy, happily unconscious of the defects in his appearance, sat 
on the carpet behind one of the legs of the piano, looking calmly 
out of his den at us, while he ate his cake. 

" I have sent him to the other end of the room," observed Miss 
Jellyby, drawing her chair nearer ours, "because I don't want him 
to hear the conversation. Those little things are so sharp ! I was 
going to say, we really are going on worse than ever. Pa will be 
a bankrupt before long, and then I hope Ma will be satisfied. 
There'll be nobody but Ma to thank for it." 

We said we hoped Mr. Jellyby's affairs were not in so bad a 
state as that. 

" It's of no use hoping, though it's very kind of you," returned 
Miss Jellyby, shaking her head. "Pa told me, only yesterday 
morning (and dreadfully unhappy he is), that he couldn't weather 
the storm. I should be surprised if he could. When all our 
tradesmen send into our house any stuffs they like, and the servants I 
do what they like with it, and I have no time to improve things 
if I knew how, and Ma don't care about anything, I should like to 
make out how Pa is to weather the storm. I declare if I was Pa, 
I'd run away ! " 



i 



BLEAK HOUSE. 173 

" My dear ! " said I, smiling. " Your papa, no doubt, considers 
his family." 

" yes, his family is all very fine, Miss Summerson," replied 
Miss Jellyby ; " but what comfort is his family to him 1 His 
family is nothing but bills, dirt, waste, noise, tumbles down stairs, 
confusion, and wretchedness. His scrambling home, from week's- 
end to week's-end, is like one great washing-day — only nothing's 
washed ! " 

Miss Jellyby tapped her foot upon the floor, and wiped her eyes. 

"I am sure I pity Pa to that degree," she said, "and am so 
angry with Ma, that I can't find words to express myself ! How- 
ever, I am not going to bear it, I am determined. I won't be a 
slave all my life, and I won't submit to be proposed to by Mr. 
Quale. A pretty thing, indeed, to marry a Philanthropist. As if 
I hadn't had enough of that 1 " said poor Miss Jellyby. 

I must confess that I could not help feeling rather angry with 
Mrs. Jellyby, myself; seeing and hearing this neglected girl, and 
knowing how much of bitterly satirical truth there was in what she 
said. 

"If it wasn't that we had been intimate when you stopped at 
our house," pursued Miss Jellyby, "I should have been ashamed 
to come here to-day, for I know what a figure I must seem to you 
two. But, as it is, I made up my mind to call : especially as I 
am not likely to see you again, the next time you come to town." 

She said this with such great significance that Ada and I glanced 
at one another, foreseeing something more. 

"No!" said Miss Jellyby, shaking her head. "Not at all 
likely ! I know I may trust you two. I am sure you won't 
betray me. I am engaged." 

" Without their knowledge at home % " said I. 

" Why, good gracious me. Miss Summerson," she returned, justi- 
fying herself in a fretful but not angiy manner, " how can it be 
otherwise % You know what Ma is — and I needn't make poor Pa 
more miserable by telling him." 

" But would it not be adding to his unhappiness, to marry with- 
out his knowledge or consent, my dear ? " said I. 

"No," said Miss Jellyby, softening. "I hope not. I should 
try to make him happy and comfortable when he came to see me ; 
and Peepy and the others should take it in turns to come and stay 
with me; and they should have some care taken of them, then." 

There was a good deal of aff"ection in poor Caddy. She softened 
more and more while saying this, and cried so much over the 
imwonted little home-picture she had raised in her mind, that Peepy, 
in his cave under the piano, was touched, and turned himself over 



174 BLEAK HOUSE. 

on liis back with loud lamentations. It was not until I had 
brought him to kiss his sister, and had restored him to his place 
in my lap, and had shown him that Caddy was laughing (she 
laughed expressly for the purpose), that we could recall his peace 
of mind ; even then, it was for some time conditional on his taking 
us in turns by the chin, and smoothing our faces all over with his 
hand. At last, as his spirits were not yet equal to the piano, we 
put him on a chair to look out of window ; and Miss Jellyby, hold- 
ing him by one leg, resumed her confidence. 

" It began in your coming to our house," she said. 

We naturally asked how ? 

" I felt I was so awkward," she replied, " that I made up my 
mind to be improved in that respect, at all events, and to learn to 
dance. I told Ma I was ashamed of myself, and I must be taught 
to dance. Ma looked at me in that provoking way of hers as if 
I wasn't in sight ; but, I was quite determined to be taught to 
dance, and so I went to Mr. Turveydrop's Academy in Newman 
Street." 

" And was it there, my dear " I began. 

"Yes, it was there," said Caddy, "and I am engaged to Mr. 
Turveydrop. There are two Mr. Turveydrops, father and son. 
My Mr. Turveydrop is the son, of course. I only wish I had been 
better brought up, and was likely to make him a better wife ; for 
I am very fond of him." 

"I am sorry to hear this," said I, "I must confess." 

"I don't know why you should be sorry," she retorted a little 
anxiously, "but I am engaged to Mr. Turveydrop, whether or no, 
and he is very fond of me. It's a secret as yet, even on his side, 
because old Mr. Turveydrop has a share in the connection, and it 
might break his heart, or give him some other shock, if he was told 
of it abruptly. Old Mr. Turveydrop is a very gentlemanly man 
indeed — very gentlemanly." 

" Does his wife know of it 1 " asked Ada. 

" Old Mr. Turveydrop's wife. Miss Clare 1 " returned Miss 
Jellyby, opening her eyes. " There's no such person. He is a 
widower." 

We were here interrupted by Peepy, whose leg had undergone 
so much on account of his sister's unconsciously jerking it like a 
bell-rope whenever she was emphatic, that the afflicted child now 
bemoaned his sufferings Avith a very low-spirited noise. As he 
appealed to me for compassion, and as I was only a listener, I 
undertook to hold him. Miss Jellyby proceeded, after begging 
Peepy's pardon with a kiss, and assuring him that she hadn't 
meant to do it. 



BLEAK HOUSE. 176 

"That's the state of the case," said Caddy. "If I ever blame 
myself, I still think it's Ma's fault. We are to be married when- 
ever we can, and then I shall go to Pa at the office and write to 
Ma. It won't much agitate Ma : I am only pen and ink to her. 
One great comfort is," said Caddy, with a sob, "that I shall never 
hear of Africa after I am married. Young Mr. Turveydrop hates 
it for my sake ; and if old Mr. Turveydrop knows there is such a 
place, it's as much as he does." 

"It was he who was veiy gentlemanly, I think?" said I. 

" Very gentlemanly, indeed," said Caddy. "He is celebrated, 
almost everywliere, for his Deportment." 

"Does he teach?" asked Ada. 

"No, he don't teach anything in particular," replied Caddy. 
" But his Deportment is beautiful." 

Caddy went on to say, with considerable hesitation and reluc- 
tance, that there was one thing more she wished us to know, and 
felt we ought to know, and which she hoped would not offend us. 
It was, that she had improved her acquaintance with Miss Flite, 
the little crazy old lady ; and that she frequently went there early 
in the morning, and met her lover for a few minutes before break- 
fast — only for a few minutes. " / go there, at other times," said 
Caddy, " but Prince does not come then. Young Mr. Turveydrop's 
name is Prince ; I wish it wasn't, because it sounds like a dog, but 
of course he didn't christen himself. Old Mr. Turveydrop had him 
christened Prince, in remembrance of the Prince Regent. Old Mr. 
Turveydrop adored the Prince Regent on account of his Deport- 
ment. I hope you won't think the worse of me for having made 
these little appointments at Miss Flite's, where I first went with 
you ; because I like the poor thing for her own sake, and I believe 
she likes me. If you could see young Mr. Turveydrop, I am sure 
you would think well of him — at least, I am sure you couldn't 
possibly think any ill of him. I am going there now, for my les- 
son. I couldn't ask you to go with me. Miss Summerson; but if 
you would," said Caddy, who had said all this, earnestly and trem- 
blingly, "I should be very glad — very glad." 

It happened that we had arranged with my Guardian to go to 
Miss Flite's that day. We had told him of our former visit, and 
our account had interested him ; but something had always hap- 
pened to prevent our going there again. As I trusted that I might 
have sufficient influence with Miss Jellyby to prevent her taking 
any very rash step, if I fully accepted the confidence she was so 
willing to place in me, poor girl, I proposed that she and I and 
Peepy should go to the Academy, and afterwards meet my Guardian 
and Ada at Miss Flite's — whose name I now learnt for the first 



BLEAK HOUSE. 177 

time. This was on condition that Miss Jelly by and Peepy should 
come back mth us to dinner. The last article of the agreement 
being joyfully acceded to by both, we smartened Peepy up a little, 
with the assistance of a few pins, some soaj) and water, and a hair- 
brush ; and went out : bending our steps towards Newman Street, 
which was very near. 

I found the academy established in a sufficiently dingy house at 
the corner of an archway, with busts in all the staircase windows. 
In the same house there were also established, as I gathered from 
the plates on the door, a drawing-master, a coal-merchant (there 
was, certainly, no room for his coals), and a lithographic artist. 
On the plate which, in size and situation, took precedence of all 
the rest, I read, Mr. Turveydrop. The door was open, and the 
hall was blocked up by a grand piano, a harp, and several other 
musical instraments in cases, all in progress of removal, and all 
looking rakish in the daylight. Miss Jellyby informed me that 
the academy had been lent, last night, for a concert. 

We went up-stairs — it had been quite a fine house once, when 
it was anybody's business to keep it clean and fresh, and nobody's 
business to smoke in it all day — and into Mr. Turveydi-op's great 
room, which was built out into a mews at the back, and was lighted 
by a skylight. It was a bare, resounding room, smelling of stables ; 
with cane forms along the walls ; and the walls ornamented at reg- 
ular intervals with painted lyres, and little cut-glass branches for 
candles, which seemed to be shedding their old-fashioned drops as 
other branches might shed autumn leaves. Several young lady 
pupils, ranging from thirteen or fourteen years of age to two or 
three and twenty, were assembled ; and I was looking among them 
for their instructor, when Caddy, pinching my arm, repeated the cere- 
mony of introduction. " Miss Summerson, Mr. Prince Turveydrop ! " 

I curtsied to a little blue-eyed fair man of youthful appearance, 
with flaxen hair parted in the middle, and curling at the ends all 
round his head. He had a little fiddle, which we used to call at 
school a kit, under his left arm, and its little bow in the same 
hand. His little dancing-shoes were particularly diminutive, and 
he had a little innocent, feminine manner, which not only appealed 
to me in an amiable way, but made this singular effect upon me : 
that I received the impression that he was like his mother, and 
that his mother had not been much considered or well used. 

" I am very happy to see Miss Jellyby's friend," he said, bowing 
low to me. "I began to fear," with timid tenderness, "as it was 
past the usual time, that Miss Jellyby was not coming." 

" I beg you will have the goodness to attribute that to me, who 
have detained her, and to receive my excuses, sir," said I. 



178 BLEAK HOUSE. 

" clear ! " said he. 

" And pray," I entreated, " do not allow me to be the cause of 
any more delay." 

With that apology I withdrew to a seat between Peepy (who, 
being well used to it, had already climbed into a corner place) and 
an old lady of a censorious countenance, whose two nieces were in 
the class, and who was very indignant with Peepy's boots. Prince 
Turveydrop then tinkled the strings of his kit with his fingers, and 
the young ladies stood up to dance. Just then, there appeared from 
a side-door, old Mr. Turveydrop, in the full lustre of his Deportment 

He was a fat old gentleman with a false complexion, false teeth, 
false whiskers, ■ and a wig. He had a fur collar, and he had a 
padded breast to his coat, which only wanted a star or a broad 
blue ribbon to be complete. He was pinched in, and swelled out, 
and got up, and strapped down, as much as he could possibly bear, 
He had such a neckcloth on (puffing his very eyes out of their nat- 
ural shape), and his chin and even his ears so sunk into it, that it 
seemed as though he must inevitably double up, if it were cast 
loose. He had, under his arm, a hat of great size and weight, 
shelving downward from the crown to the brim ; and in his hand 
a pair of white gloves, with which he flapped it, as he stood poised 
on one leg, in a high-shouldered, round-elbowed state of elegance 
not to be surpassed. He had a cane, he had an eye-glass, he had a. 
snufi-box, he had rings, he had wristbands, he had everything but 
any touch of nature ; he was not like youth, he was not like age,i_ 
he was like nothing in the world but a model of Deportment. 

" Father ! A visitor. Miss Jelly by's friend, Miss Summerson.'* 

" Distinguished," said Mr. Turveydrop, " by Miss Summerson'a 
presence." As he bowed to me in that tight state, I almost believe 
I saw creases come into the whites of his eyes. 

"My father," said the son, aside, to me, with quite an affecting 
belief in him, " is a celebrated character. My father is greatly 
admired." 

" Go on, Prince ! Go on ! " said Mr. Turveydrop, standing with 
his back to the fire, and waving his gloves condescendingly. " Go 
on, my son ! " 

At this command, or by this gracious permission, the lesson went 
on. Prince Turveydrop sometimes played the kit, dancing ; some- 
times played the piano, standing ; sometimes hummed the tune with 
what little breath he could spare, while he set a pupil right ; alway^ 
conscientiously moved with the least proficient through every stepi 
and every part of the figure ; and never rested for an instant. HiM 
distinguished father did nothing whatever, but stand before the fire, 
a model of Deportment. 



BLEAK HOUSE. 179 

"And he never does anything else," said the old lady of the 
censorious countenance. " Yet would you believe that it's his name 
on the door-plate ? " 

" His son's name is the same, you know," said I. 

" He wouldn't let his son have any name, if he could take it 
from him," returned the old lady. " Look at the son's dress ! " It 
certainly was plain — threadbare — almost shabby. "Yet the 
father must be garnished and tricked out," said the old lady, "be- 
cause of his Deportment. I'd deport him ! Transport him would 
be better ! " 

I felt curious to know more, concerning this person. I asked, 
" Does he give lessons in Deportment, now 1 " 

" Now ! " returned the old lady, shortly. " Never did." 

After a moment's consideration, I suggested that perhaps fencing 
had been his accomplishment 1 

" I don't believe he can fence at all, ma'am," said the old lady. 

I looked surprised and inquisitive. The old lady, becoming more 
and more incensed against the Master of Deportment as she dwelt 
upon the subject, gave me some particulars of his career, with 
strong assurances that they were mildly stated. 

He had married a meek little dancing-mistress, with a tolerable 
connection (having never in his life before done anything but deport 
himself), and had worked her to death, or had, at the best, suffered 
her to work herself to death, to maintain him in those expenses 
which were indispensable to his position. At once to exhibit his 
Deportment to the best models, and to keep the best models con- 
stantly before himself, he had found it necessary to frequent all 
public places of fashionable and lounging resort ; to be seen at 
Brighton and elsewhere at fashionable times ; and to lead an idle 
life in the very best clothes. To enable him to do this, the affection- 
ate little dancing-mistress had toiled and laboured, and would have 
toiled and laboured to that hour, if her strength had lasted so long. 
For, the mainspring of the story was, that, in spite of the man's 
absorbing selfishness, his wife (overpowered by his Deportment) had, 
to the last, believed in him, and had, on her death-bed, in the most 
moving terms, confided him to their son as one who had an inex- 
tinguishable claim upon him, and whom he could never regard with 
too much pride and deference. The son, inheriting his mother's 
belief, and liaving the Deportment always before him, had lived and 
grown in the same faith, and now, at thirty years of age, worked for 
his father twelve hours a day, and looked up to him with veneration 
on the old imaginary pinnacle. 

" The airs the fellow gives himself ! " said my informant, shaking 
her head at old Mr. Turveydrop with speechless indignation as he 



180 BLEAK HOUSE. 

drew on his tight gloves : of course unconscious of the homage she 
was rendering. "He fully believes he is one of the aristocracy 
And he is so condescending to the son he so egregiously deludes, 
that you might suppose him the most virtuous of parents. ! ' 
said the old lady, apostrophising him with infinite vehemence, " ] 
could bite you ! " 

I could not help being amused, though I heard the old lady oul 
with feelings of real concern. It was difficult to doubt her, witi 
the father and son before me. What I might have thought oj 
them without the old lady's account, or what I might have thought 
•of the old lady's account without them, I cannot say. There was 
a fitness of things in the whole that carried conviction with it. 

My eyes were yet wandering, from young Mr. Turveydrop work- 
ing so hard, to old Mr. Turveydrop deporting himself so beauti- 
fully, when the latter came ambling up to me, and entered intc 
conversation. 

He asked me, first of all, whether I conferred a charm and a 
distinction on London by residing in it ? I did not think it necea 
sary to reply that I was perfectly aware I should not do that, in 
any case, but merely told him where I did reside. 

"A lady so graceful and accomplished," he said, kissing hii 
right glove, and afterwards extending it towards the pupils, " wil 
look leniently on the deficiencies here. We do our best to polisi 
— polish — polish ! " 

He sat down beside me ; taking some pains to sit on the formj 
I thought, in imitation of the print of his illustrious model on the 
sofa. And really he did look very like it. 

"To polish — polish — polish !" he repeated, taking a pinch o: 
snuff" and gently fluttering his fingers. " But we are not — if ] 
may say so, to one formed to be graceful both by Nature anc 
Art ; " with the high-shouldered bow, which it seemed impossible 
for him to make without lifting up his eyebrows and shutting hii 
eyes — " we are not what we used to be in point of Deportment 

" Are we not, sir 1 " said I. 

"We have degenerated," he returned, shaking his head, whict 
he could do, to a very limited extent, in his cravat. "A levelling 
age is not favourable to Deportment. It develops vulgarity 
Perhaps I speak with some little partiality. It may not be for mi 
to say that I have been called, for some years now, Gentlemai 
Turveydrop ; or that His Royal Highness the Prince Regent di( 
me the honour to inquire, on my removing my hat as he drove ou' 
of the Pavihon at Brighton (that fine building), ' Who is he ? Wh( 
the Devil is he 1 Why don't I know him ? Why hasn't he thirt; 
thousand a year 1 ' But these are little matters of anecdote — thi 



BLEAK HOUSE. 181 

general property, ma'am, — still repeated, occasionally, among the 
upper classes." 
"Indeed?" said I. 

He replied with the high-shouldered bow. " Where what is 
left among us of Deportment," he added, "still lingers. England 
— alas, my country ! — has degenerated very much, and is degen- 
erating every day. She has not many gentlemen left. We are 
few. I see nothing to succeed us, but a race of weavers." 

" One might hope that the race of gentlemen would be perpetu- 
ated here," said I. 

"You are very good," he smiled, with the high-shouldered bow 
again. " You flatter me. But, no — no ! I have never been able 
to imbue my poor boy with that part of his art. Heaven forbid that 
I should disparage my dear child, but he has — no Deportment." 
" He appears to be an excellent master," I observed. 
" Understand • me, my dear madam, he is an excellent master. 
All that can be acquired, he has acquired. All that can be im- 
parted, he can impart. But there are things " — he took another 
pinch of snuff and made the bow again, as if to add, " this kind 
of thing, for instance." 

I glanced towards the centre of the room, where Miss Jellyby's 
lover, now engaged with single pupils, was undergoing greater 
drudgery than ever. 

" My amiable child," murmured Mr. Turveydrop, adjusting his 
cravat. 

"Your son is indefatigable," said I. 

"It is my reward," said Mr. Turveydrop, "to hear you say so. 
In some respects, he treads in the footsteps of his sainted mother. 
She was a devoted creature. But Wooman, lovely Wooman," said 
Mr. Turveydrop, with very disagreeable gallantry, "what a sex 
you are ! " 

I rose and joined Miss Jelly by, who was, by this time, putting 
on her bonnet. The time allotted to a lesson having fully elapsed, 
there was a general putting on of bonnets. When Miss Jellyby 
and the unfortunate Prince found an opportunity to become be- 
itrothed I don't know, but they certainly found none, on this occa- 
. sion, to exchange a dozen wOrds. 

'. "My dear," said Mr. Turveydrop benignly to his son, "do you 
I know the hour ? " 

! "No, father." The son had no watch. The father had a hand- 
isome gold one, which he pulled out, with an air that was an exam- 
cple to mankind. 

' "My son," said he, "it's two o'clock. Recollect your school at 
; Kensington at three." 



182 BLEAK HOUSE. 

" That's time enough for me, father," said Prince. " I can take 
a morsel of dinner, standing, and be off." 

"My dear boy," returned his father, "you must be very quick 
You will find the cold mutton on the table." 

" Thank you, father. Are you off now, father ? " 

"Yes, my dear. I sujDpose," said Mr. Turveydrop, shutting hif 
eyes and lifting up his shoulders, with modest consciousness, " thai 
I must show myself, as usual, about town." 

"You had better dine out comfortably, somewhere," said his son 

"My dear child, I intend to. I shall take my little meal, ] 
think, at the French house, in the Opera Colonnade." 

" That's right. Good bye, father ! " said Prince, shaking hands 

" Good bye, my son. Bless you ! " 

Mr. Turveydrop said this in quite a pious manner, and it seemec 
to do his son good ; who, in parting from him, was so pleased with 
him, so dutiful to him, and so proud of him, that I almost felt as if 
it were an unkindness to the younger man not to be able to believf 
implicitly in the elder. The few moments that were occupied b; 
Prince in taking leave of us (and particularly of one of us, as I sa-w^ 
being in the secret), enhanced my favourable impression of hii 
almost childish character. I felt a liking for him, and a compas 
sion for him, as he put his little kit in his pocket — and with il 
his desire to stay a little while with Caddy — and went away good 
humouredly to his cold mutton and his school at Kensington, thai 
made me scarcely less irate with his father than the censorious olc 
lady. 

The father opened the room-door for us, and bowed us out, in s 
manner, I must acknowledge, worthy of his shining original. In 
the same style he presently passed us on the other side of the 
street, on his way to the aristocratic part of the town, where he 
was going to show himself among the few other gentlemen left, 
For some moments, I was so lost in reconsidering what I had hean 
and seen in Newman Street, that I was quite unable to talk ti 
Caddy, or even to fix my attention on what she said to me : espi 
cially, when I began to inquire in my mind whether there were, o: 
ever had been, any other gentlemen, not in the dancing profession, 
who lived and founded a reputation entirely on their Deportment. 
This became so bewildering, and suggested the possibility of so 
many Mr. Turvey drops, that I said, "Esther, you must make up 
your mind to abandon this subject altogether, and attend to Caddy." 
I accordingly did so, and we chatted all the rest of the way td 
Lincoln's Inn. 

Caddy told me that her lover's education had been so neglected, 
that it was not always easy to read his notes. She said, if he were 



BLEAK HOUSE, 183 

not so anxious about his spelling, and took less pains to make it 
clear, he would do better ; but he put so many unnecessary letters 
into short words, that they sometimes quite lost their English ap- 
pearance. "He does it with the best intentions," observed Caddy, 
" but it hasn't the effect he means, poor fellow ! " Caddy then 
went on to reason, how could he be expected to be a scholar, when 
he had passed his whole life in the dancing-school, and had done 
nothing but teach and fag, fag and teach, morning, noon, and 
night ! And what did it matter 1 She could write letters enough 
for both, as she knew to her cost, and it was far better for him to 
be amiable than learned. " Besides, it's not as if I was an accom- 
plished girl who had any right to give herself airs," said Caddy. 
" I know little enough, I am sure, thanks to Ma ! " 

" There's another thing I want to tell you, now we are alone," 
continued Caddy, " which I should not have liked to mention un- 
less you had seen Prince, Miss Summerson. You know what a 
house ours is. It's of no use my trying to learn anything that it 
would be useful for Prince's wife to know, in ou7' house. We live 
in such a state of muddle that it's impossible, and I have only been 
more disheartened whenever I have tried. So, I get a little prac- 
tice with — ■ who do you think ? Poor Miss Flite ! Early in the 
morning, I help her to tidy her room, and clean her birds ; and I 
make her cup of coffee for her (of course she taught me), and I 
have learnt to make it so well that Prince says it's the very best 
coffee he ever tasted, and would quite delight old Mr. Turveydrop, 
who is very particular indeed about his coffee. I can make little 
puddings too ; and I know how to buy neck of mutton, and tea, 
and sugar, and butter, and a good many housekeeping things. I 
am not clever at my needle, yet," said Caddy, glancing at the re- 
pairs on Peepy's frock, " but perhaps I shall improve. And since I 
have been engaged to Prince, and have been doing all this, I have 
felt better-tempered, I hope, and more forgiving to Ma. It rather 
put me out, at first this morning, to see you and Miss Clare look- 
ing so neat and pretty, and to feel ashamed of Peepy and myself 
too ; but, on the whole, I hope I am better-tempered than I was, 
and more forgiving to Ma." 

The poor girl, trying so hard, said it from her heart, and touched 
mine. " Caddy, my love," I replied, " I begin to have a gi'eat 
affection for you, and I hope we shall become friends." " Oh, do 
you ? " cried Caddy ; " how happy that would make me ! " " My 
dear Caddy," said I, "let us be friends from this time, and let us 
often have a chat about these matters, and try to find the right way 
through them." Caddy was overjoyed. I said everything I could, 
in my old-fashioned way, to comfort and encourage her ; and I 



he 

1 



184 BLEAK HOUSE. 

would not have objected to old Mr. Turveydrop, that day, for an; 
smaller consideration than a settlement on his daughter-in-law. 

By this time, we were come to Mr. Krook's, whose private doo: 
stood open. There was a bill, pasted on the door-post, announcin 
a room to let on the second floor. It reminded Caddy to tell mi 
as we proceeded up-stairs, that there had been a sudden deat 
there, and an inquest ; and that our little friend had been ill of thi 
fright. The door and window of the vacant room being open, w( 
looked in. It was the room with the dark door, to which Mis; 
Flite had secretly directed my attention when I was last in the 
house. A sad and desolate place it was ; a gloomy, sorrowfi 
place, that gave me a strange sensation of mournfulness and eve: 
dread. "You look pale," said Caddy, when we came out, "an 
cold ! " I felt as if the room had chilled me. 

We had walked slowly, while we were talking ; and my Guardian 
and Ada were here before us. We found them in Miss Flite's^ 
garret. They were looking at the birds, while a medical gentlemai 
who was so good as to attend Miss Flite with much solicitude anc 
compassion, spoke with her cheerfully by the fire. 

" I have finished my professional visit," he said, coming forward 
"Miss Flite is much better, and may appear in Court (as her mine 
is set upon it) to-morrow. She has been greatly missed there, 
understand." 

Miss Flite received the compliment with complacency, an( 
dropped a general curtsey to us. 

" Honoured, indeed," said she, " by another visit from the 
Wards in Jarndyce ! Ve-ry happy to receive Jarndyce of Bleak 
House beneath my humble roof ! " with a special curtsey. " Fitz 
Jarndyce, my dear ; " she had bestowed that name on Caddy, i' 
appeared, and always called her by it ; "a double welcome ! " 

" Has she been very ill ? " asked Mr. Jarndyce of the gentlemai 
whom we had found in attendance on her. She answered foi 
herself directly, though he had put the question in a whisper. 

"0 decidedly unwell ! very unwell indeed," she said, con 
fidentially. " Not pain, you know — trouble. Not bodily so mud 
as nervous, nervous ! The truth is," in a subdued voice and trem- 
bling, " we have had death here. There was poison in the house, 
am very susceptible to such horrid things. It frightened me. Onb 
Mr. Woodcourt knows how much. My physician, Mr. Woodcourt ! 
with great stateliness. " The Wards in Jarndyce — Jarndyce of 
Bleak House — Fitz-Jarndyce ! " 

" Miss Flite," said Mr. Woodcourt, in a grave kind voice as 
he were appealing to her while speaking to us ; and laying his ham 
gently on her arm ; " Miss Flite describes her illness with h- 



BLEAK HOUSE. 185 

usual accuracy. She was alarmed by an occurrence in the house 
which might have alarmed a stronger person, and was made ill by 
the distress and agitation. She brought me here, in the first 
hurry of the discovery, though too late for me to be of any use to 
the unfortunate man. I have compensated myself for that disap- 
pointment by coming here since, and being of some small use to her." 

" The kindest physician in the college," whispered Miss Flite to 
me. " I expect a Judgment. On the day of Judgment. And 
shall then confer estates." 

" She will be as well, in a day or two," said Mr. Woodcourt, 
looking at her with an observant smile, " as she ever will be. In 
other words, quite well of course. Have you heard of her good 
fortune 1 " 

" Most extraordinary ! " said Miss Flite, smiling brightly. " You 
never heard of such a thing, my dear ! Eveiy Saturday, Conver- 
sation Kenge, or Guppy (clerk to Conversation K.), places in my 
hand a paper of shillings. Shillings. I assure you ! Always the 
same number in the paper. Always one for every day in the week. 
Now you know, really ! So well-timed, is it not 1 Ye-es ! From 
whence do these papers come, you say 1 That is the great ques- 
tion. Naturally. Shall I tell you what / think? / think," said 
Miss Flite, drawing herself back with a very shrewd look, and shak- 
ing her right forefinger in a most significant manner, " that the 
Lord Chancellor, aware of the length of time during which the 
Great Seal has been open, (for it has been open a long time !) for- 
wards them. Until the Judgment I expect, is given. Now that's 
very creditable, you know. To confess in that way that he is a 
little slow for human life. So delicate ! Attending Court the 
lother day — I attend it regularly — with my documents — I taxed 
him with it, and he almost confessed. That is, I smiled at him 
(from my bench, and he smiled at me from his bench. But it's 
■great good fortune, is it not 1 And Fitz-Jarndyce lays the money 
out for me to great advantage. 0, I assure you to the greatest 



: I congratulated her (as she addressed herself to me) upon this 
fortunate addition to her income, and washed her a long continuance 
!of it. I did not speculate upon the source from wliich it came, or 
wonder whose humanity was so considerate. My Guardian stood 
before me, contemplating the birds, and I had no need to look 
Ibeyond him. 

"And what do you call these little fellows, ma'am?" said he 
lin his pleasant voice. " Have they any names ? " 
J " I can answer for Miss Flite that they have," said I, " for she 
;promised to tell us what they were. Ada remembers ? " 



186 BLEAK HOUSE. 

Ada remembered very well. ^^^ 

" Did 1 1 " said Miss Elite — " Who's that at my door ? What 
are you listening at my door for, Krook 1 " 

The old man of the house, pushing it open before him, appeared 
there with his fur- cap in his hand, and his cat at his heels. 

"/ warn't listening, Miss Flite," he said. " I was going to give 
a rap with my knuckles, only you're so quick ! " 

" Make your cat go down. Drive her away ! " the old lady 
angrily exclaimed. 

"Bah bah! — There ain't no danger, gentlefolks," said Mr. 
Krook, looking slowly and sharply from one to another, until he 
had looked at all of us ; " she'd never offer at the birds when I 
was here, unless I told her to it." 

"You will excuse my landlord," said the old lady with a digni- 
fied air. " M, quite M ! What do you want, Krook, when I have 
company ? " 

"Hi ! " said the old man. "You know I am the Chancellor." 

" Well 1 " returned Miss Flite. " What of that 1 " 

"For the Chancellor," said the old man, with a chuckle, "not 
to be acquainted with a Jarndyce is queer, ain't it. Miss Flite? 
Mightn't I take the liberty ? — Your servant, sir. I know Jarn- 
dyce and Jarndyce a'most as well as you do, sir. I knowed old 
Squire Tom, sir. I never to my knowledge see you afore though, 
not even in Court. Yet, I go there a mortal sight of times in the 
course of the year, taking one day with another." 

"I never go there," said Mr. Jarndyce (which he never did on 
any consideration). " I would sooner go — somewhere else." 

"Would you though?" returned Krook, grinning. "You're 
bearing hard upon my noble and learned brother in your meaning, 
sir ; though, perhaps, it is but nat'ral in a Jarndyce. The burnt 
child, sir ! What, you're looking at my lodger's birds, Mr. Jarn- 
dyce ? " The old man had come by little and little into the room, 
until he now touched my Guardian with his elbow, and looked close 
up into his face with his spectacled eyes. " It's one of her strange 
ways, that she'll never tell the names of these birds if she can help 
it, though she named 'em all." This was in a whisper. " Shall I 
run 'em over, Flite ? " he asked aloud, winking at us and pointing 
at her as she turned away, affecting to sweep the grate. 

" If you like," she answered hurriedly. 

The old man, looking up at the cages, after another look at us, 
went through the list. 

"Hope, Joy, Youth, Peace, Rest, Life, Dust, Ashes, Waste, 
Want, Ruin, Despair, Madness, Death, Cunning, Folly, Words, 
Wigs, Rags, Sheepskin, Plunder, Precedent, Jargon, Gammon, and 



i\ 



BLEAK HOUSE. 187 

Spinach. That's the whole collection," said the old man, "all 
cooped up together, by my noble and learned brother." 
" This is a bitter wind ! " muttered my Guardian. 
" When my noble and learned brother gives his Judgment, 
they're to be let go free," said Krook, winking at us again. " And 
then," he added, whispering and grinning, "if that ever was to 
happen — which it won't — the birds that have never been caged 
would kill 'em." 

"If ever the wind was in the east," said my Guardian, pretend- 
ing to look out of the window for a weathercock, " I think it's there 
to-day ! " 

We found it very difficult to get away from the house. It was 
not Miss Flite who detained us; she was as reasonable a little 
: creature in consulting the convenience of others, as there possibly 
could be. It was Mr. Krook. He seemed unable to detach him- 
self from Mr. Jarndyce. If he had been linked to him, he could 
hardly have attended him more closely. He proposed to show us 
his Court of Chancery, and all the strange medley it contained ; 
during the whole of our inspection (prolonged by himself) he kept 
close to Mr. Jarndyce, and sometimes detained him, under one 
I pretence or other, until we had passed on, as if he were tormented 
il by an inclination to enter upon some secret subject, which he could 
« not make up his mind to approach. I cannot imagine a counte- 
I nance and manner more singularly expressive of caution and inde- 
cision, and a perpetual impulse to do something he could not 
1 resolve to venture on, than Mr. Krook's was, that day. His watch- 
fulness of my Guardian was incessant. He rarely removed his eyes 
J from his face. If he went on beside him, he observed him with 
. the slyness of an old white fox. If he went before, he looked back. 
I When we stood still, he got opposite to him, and drawing his hand 
I across and across his open mouth with a curious expression of a 
■' sense of power, and turning up his eyes, and lowering his grey eye- 
j brows until they appeared to be shut, seemed to scan every linea- 
*: raent of his face. 

;] At last, having been (always attended by the cat) all over the 
li house, and having seen the whole stock of miscellaneous lumber, 
fe' which was certainly curious, we came into the back part of the 
] shop. Here, on the head of an empty barrel stood on end, were 
an ink-bottle, some old stumps of pens, and some dirty playbills ; 
■and, against the wall, were pasted several large printed alphabets 
in several plain hands. 

" What are you doing here ? " asked my Guardian. 
"Trying to learn myself to read and write," said Krook. 
" And how do you get on ? " 



188 BLEAK HOUSE. 

" Slow. Bad," returned the old man, impatiently. " It's hard 
at my time of life." 

"It would, be easier to be taught by some one," said my 
Guardian. 

" Aye, but they might teach me wrong ! " returned the old man, 
with a wonderfully suspicious flash of his eye. "I don't know 
what I may have lost, by not being learnd afore. I wouldn't like 
to lose anything by being learnd wrong now." 

" Wrong 1 " said my Guardian, with his good-humoured smile. 
"Who do you suppose would teach you wrong?" 

" I don't know, Mr. Jarndyce of Bleak House ! " replied the old 
man, turning up his spectacles on his forehead, and rubbing his 
hands. " I don't suppose as anybody would — but I'd rather tmst 
my own self than another ! " 

These answers, and his manner, were strange enough to cause 
my Guardian to inquire of Mr. Woodcourt, as we all walked across 
Lincoln's Inn together, whether Mr. Krook were really, as his 
lodger represented him, deranged ? The young surgeon replied, no, 
he had seen no reason to think so. He was exceedingly distrust- 
ful, as ignorance usually was, and he was always more or less under 
the influence of raw gin : of which he drank great quantities, and ! 
of which he and his back-shop, as we might have observed, smelt 
strongly; but he did not think him mad, as yet. 

On our way home, I so conciliated Peepy's affections by buying 
him a windmill and two flour-sacks, that he would suffer nobody 
else to take off his hat and gloves, and would sit nowhere at 
dinner but at my side. Caddy sat upon the other side of me, 
next to Ada, to whom we imparted the Avhole history of the engage- 
ment as soon as we got back. We made much of Caddy, and 
Peepy too ; and Caddy brightened exceedingly ; and my Guardian 
was as merry as we were ; and we were all very happy indeed ; 
until Caddy went home at night in a hackney-coach, with Peepy 
fast asleep, but holding tight to the windmill. 

I have forgotten to mention — at least I have not mentioned — 
that Mr. Woodcourt was the same dark yovmg surgeon whom Wf 
had met at Mr. Badger's. Or, that Mr. Jarndyce invited him ti 
dinner that day. Or, that he came. Or, that when they were ; 
all gone, and I said to Ada, " Now, my darling, let us have a little ! 
talk about Richard ! " Ada laughed and said 

But, I don't think it matters what my darling said. She was 
always merry. i 

; 



BLEAK HOUSE. 189 

CHAPTER XV. 

BELL YARD. 

While we were in London, Mr. Jarndyce was constantly beset 
by tlie crowd of excitable ladies and gentlemen whose proceedings 
had so much astonished us. Mr. Quale, who presented himself 
soon after our arrival, was in all such excitements. He seemed 
to project, those two shining knobs of temples of his into eveiything 
that went on, and to brush his hair farther and farther back, until 
the very roots were almost ready to fly out of his head in inap- 
peasable philanthropy. All objects were alike to him, but he was 
always particularly ready for anything in the way of a testimonial 
to any one. His great power seemed to be his power of indiscrimi- 
nate admiration. He would sit, for any length of time, with the 
utmost enjoyment, bathing his temples in the light of any order 
of luminaiy. Having first seen him perfectly swallowed up in 
admiration of Mrs. Jellyby, I had supposed her to be the absorbing 
i object of his devotion. I soon discovered my mistake, and found 
him to be train-bearer and organ-blower to a whole procession of 
I people. 

i Mrs. Pardiggle came one day for a subscription to something — 
and Avith her, Mr. Quale. Whatever Mrs. Pardiggle said, Mr. 
ji Quale repeated to us ; and just as he had drawn Mrs. Jellyby out, 
[he drew Mrs. Pardiggle out. Mrs. Pardiggle wrote a letter of 
' introduction to my Guardian, in behalf of her eloquent friend, Mr. 
1 Gusher. With Mr. Gusher, appeared Mr. Quale again. Mr. Gusher, 
-^ being a flabby gentleman with a moist surface, and eyes so much 
J too small for his moon of a face that they seemed to have been 
Ji originally made for somebody else, was not at first sight prepossess- 
ing ; yet, he was scarcely seated, before Mr. Quale asked Ada and 
,me, not inaudibly, whether he was not a great creature — which 
he certainly was, flabbily speakmg ; though Mr. Quale meant in 
[-intellectual beauty — and whether we were not struck by his 
•massive configuration of brow? In short, we heard of a great 
1 many Missions of various sorts, among this set of people ; but, 
rinothing respecting them was half so clear to us, as that it was 
aMr. Quale's mission to be in ecstasies with everybody else's mission, 
! and that it was the most popular mission of all. 
I' Mr. Jarndyce had fallen into this company, in the tenderness 
j of his heart and his earnest desire to do all the good in his power ; 
j but, that he felt it to be too often an unsatisfactoiy company, 
I where benevolence took spasmodic forms ; where charity was 
assumed, as a regular uniform, by loud professors and speculators 



190 BLEAK HOUSE. 



I 



in cheap notoriety, vehement in profession, restless and vain in 
action, servile in the last degree of meanness to the great, adulatory 
of one another, and intolerable to those who were anxious quietly 
to help the weak from falling, rather than with a great deal of 
bluster and self-laudation to raise them up a little way when they 
were down ; he plainly told us. When a testimonial was originated 
to Mr. Quale, by Mr. Gusher (who had already got one, originated 
by Mr. Quale), and when Mr. Gusher spoke for an hour and a half 
on the subject to a meeting, including two charity schools of small 
boys and girls, who were specially reminded of the widow's mite, 
and requested to come forward with halfpence and be acceptable 
sacrifices ; I think the wind was in the east for three whole weeks. 

I mention this, because I am coming to Mr. Skimpole again. It 
seemed to me, that his off-hand professions of childishness and care- 
lessness were a great relief to my Guardian, by contrast with such 
things, and were the more readily believed in ; since, to find one 
.perfectly undesigning and candid man, among many opposites, could 
not fail to give him pleasure. I should be sony to imply that 
Mr. Skimpole divined this, and was politic : I really never under- 
stood him well enough to know. What he was to my Guardiartj 
he certainly was to the rest of the world. T i 

He had not been very well ; and thus, though he lived in London, 
we had seen nothing of him until now. He appeared one morning, 
in his usual agreeable way, and as full of pleasant spirits as ever. 

Well, he said, here he was ! He had been bilious, but rich men 
were often bilious, and therefore he had been persuading himself 
that he was a man of property. So he was, in a certain point of 
view — in his expansive intentions. He had been enriching his 
medical attendant in the most lavish manner. He had always 
doubled, and sometimes quadrupled, his fees. He had said to the 
doctor, " Now, my dear doctor, it is quite a delusion on your part 
to suppose that you attend me for nothing. I am overwhelming 
you with money — in my expansive intentions — if you only knew 
it ! " And really (he said) he meant it to that degree, that he 
thought it much the same as doing it. If he had had those bits 
of metal or thin paper to which mankind attached so much impor- 
tance, to put in the doctor's hand, he would have put them in the 
doctor's hand. Not having them, he substituted the will for the 
deed. Very well ! If he really meant it — if his will were genuine 
and real : which it was — it appeared to him that it was the same 
as coin, and cancelled the obligation. • 

" It may be, partly, because I know nothing of the value of 
money," said Mr, Skimpole, "but I often feel this. It seems so 
reasonable ! My butcher says to me, he wants that little bill. | 



BLEAK HOUSE. 191 

It's a part of the pleasant unconscious poetry of the man's nature, 
that he always calls it a ' little ' bill — to make the payment appear 
easy to both of us. I reply to the butcher, My good friend, if you 
knew it you are paid. You haven't had the trouble of coming to 
ask for the little bill. You are paid. I mean it." 

"But, suppose," said my Guardian, laughing, "he had meant the 
meat in the bill, instead of i^roviding it ? " 

"My dear Jarndyce," he returned, "you surprise me. You take 

the butcher's position. A butcher I once dealt with, occupied that 

very ground. Says he, ' Sir, why did you eat spring lamb at eigh- 

teenpence a pound?' 'Why did I eat spring lamb at eighteen- 

pence a pound, my honest friend?' said I, naturally amazed by 

the question. ' I like spring lamb ! ' This was so far convincing. 

'Well, sir,' says he, 'I wish I had meant the lamb as you mean 

I the money ! ' ' My good fellow,' said I, ' pray let us reason like 

intellectual beings. How could that be? It was impossible. 

, You had got the lamb, and I have not got the money. Yov 

couldn't really mean the lamb without sending it in, whereas 1 

. can, and do, really mean the money without paying it ! ' He had 

I not a word. There was an end of the subject." 

"Did he take no legal proceedings?" inquired my Guardian. 

"Yes, he took legal proceedings," said Mr. Skimpole. "But, 

in that, he was influenced by passion ; not by reason. Passion 

, reminds me of Boythorn. He writes me that you and the ladies 

. have promised him a short visit at his bachelor-house in Lincoln- 

] shire." 

"He is a great favourite with my girls," said Mr. Jarndyce, 
J "and I have promised for them." 

" Nature forgot to shade him off", I think 1 " observed Mr. Skim- 
. pole to Ada and me. "A little too boisterous — like the sea? A 
► little too vehement — like a bull, who has made up his mind to 
[ consider every colour scarlet? But, I grant a sledge-hammering. 
f sort of merit in him ! " 

J I should have been surprised if those two could have thought 
, very highly of one another; Mr. Boythorn attaching so much 
. importance to many things, and Mr. Skimpole caring so little for 
), anything. Besides which, I had noticed Mr. Boythorn more than 
J, once on the point of breaking out into some strong opinion, when 
,, Mr. Skimpole was referred to. Of course I merely joined Ada in 
, saying that we had been greatly pleased with him. 

" He has invited me," said Mr. Skimpole ; " and if a child may 
I trust himself in such hands : which the present child is encouraged 
, to do, with the united tenderness of two angels to guard him : I 
[ shall go. He proposes to frank me down and back again. I sup- 



192 BLEAK HOUSE. 

pose it will cost money 1 Shillings perhaps ? Or pounds 1 Oi 
something of that sort 1 By-the-bye. Coavinses. You remembei 
our friend Coavinses, Miss Summerson?" 

He asked me, as the subject arose m his mind, in his gracefu 
light-hearted manner, and without the least embarrassment. 

" yes ! " said I. 

" Coavinses has been arrested by the great Bailiff," said Mr 
Skimpole. " He will never do violence to the sunshine any more.' 

It quite shocked me to hear it ; for, I had already recalled, with 
anything but a serious association, the image of the man sitting oi 
the sofa that night, wiping his head. 

" His successor informed me of it yesterday," said Mr. Skimpole; 
" His successor is in my house now — in possession, I think h« 
calls it. He came yesterday, on my blue-eyed daughter's birthday, 
I put it to him, ' This is unreasonable and inconvenient. If yoi] 
had a blue-eyed daughter you wouldn't like me to come, uninvited) 
on her birthday 1 ' But, he stayed." 

Mr. Skimpole laughed at the pleasant absurdity, and lightlj 
touched the piano by which he was seated. 

"And he told me," he said, playing little chords where I .shall 
put full stops, "That Coavinses had left. Three children. Nc 
mother. And that Coavinses' profession. Being unpopular. The 
rising Coavinses. Were at a considerable disadvantage." 

Mr. Jarndyce got up, rubbing his head, and began to walk 
about. Mr. Skimpole played the melody of one of Ada's favouritr 
songs. Ada and I both looked at Mr. Jarndyce, thinking that wi 
knew what was passing in his mind. 

After walking, and stopping, and several times leaving off rubbin] 
his head, and beginning again, my Guardian put his hand upoi| 
the keys and stopped Mr. Skimpole's playing. "I don't like this; 
Skimpole," he said, thoughtfully. ' 

Mr. Skimpole, who had quite forgotten the subject, looked up| 
surprised. 

"The man was necessary," pursued my Guardian, walking back- 
ward and forward in the very short space between the piano and 
the end of the room, and rubbing his hair up from the back of his 
head as if a high east wind had blown it into that form. "If we 
make such men necessary by our faults and follies, or by our want 
of worldly knowledge, or by our misfortunes, we must not revenge 
ourselves upon them. There was no harm in his trade. He main- 
tained his children. One w^ould like to know more about this." 

" ! Coavinses ? " cried Mr. Skimpole, at length perceiving 
what he meant. " Nothing easier. A walk to Coavinses' head- 
quarters, and you can know what you will." 



BLEAK HOUSE. 193 

Mr. Jarndyce nodded to us, who were only waiting for the sig- 
nal. " Come ! We will walk that way, my dears. Why not 
tliat way, as soon as another ! " We were quickly ready, and went 
out. Mr. Skimpole went with us, and quite enjoyed the expedi- 
tion. It was so new and so refreshing, he said, for him to want 
Ooavinses, instead of Coavinses wanting him ! 

He took us, first, to Cursitor Street, Chancery Lane, where 
there was a house with barred windows, which he called Coavinses' 
Castle. On our going into the entry and ringing a bell, a very 
hideous boy came out of a sort of office, and looked at us over a 
spiked wicket. 

" Who did you want 1 " said the boy, fitting two of the spikes 
into his chin. 

" There was a follower, or an officer, or something, here," said 
Mr. Jarndyce, "who is dead." 

" Yes 1 " said the boy. " Well ? " 

" I want to know his name, if you please 1 " 

"Name of Neckett," said the boy. 

" And his address 1 " 

"Bell Yard," said the boy. " Chandler's shop, left hand side, 
name of Blinder." 

"Was he — I don't know how to shape the question," mur- 
mured my Guardian — " industrious 1 " 

" Was Neckett 1 " said the boy. " Yes, wery much so. He 
was never tired of watching. He'd set upon a post at a street 
corner, eight or ten hours at a stretch, if he undertook to do it." 

" He might have done worse," I heard my Guardian soliloquise. 
" He might have undertaken to do it, and not done it. Thank you. 
That's ail I want." 

We left the boy, with his head on one side, and his arms on the 
gate, fondling and sucking the spikes ; and went back to Lincoln's 
Inn, where Mr. Skimpole, who had not cared to remain nearer 
Coavinses, awaited us. Then, we all went to Bell Yard : a nar- 
row alley, at a very short distance. We soon found the chandler's 
shop. In it, was a good-natured-looking old woman, with a dropsy, 
or an asthma, or perhaps both. 

" Neckett's children ? " said she, in reply to my inquiry. " Yes, 
surely, miss. Three pair, if you please. Door right opposite the 
top of the stairs." And she handed me the key across the counter. 

I glanced at the key, and glanced at her ; but she took it for 
granted that I knew what to do with it. As it could only be 
intended for the children's door, I came out, without asking any 
more questions, and led the way up the dark stairs. We went as 
quietly as we could ; but four of us made some noise on the aged 



194 BLEAK HOUSE. 

boards ; and, when we came to the second stoiy, we found we had • 
disturbed a man who was standing there, looking out of his room. 

" Is it Gridley that's wanted 1 " he said, fixing his eyes on me 
with an angry stare. 

"No, sir," said I, "I am going higher up." 

He looked at Ada, and at Mr. Jarndyce, and at Mr. Skirapole : 
fixing the same angry stare on each in succession, as they passed 
and followed me. Mr. Jarndyce gave him good day. "Good 
day ! " he said, abruptly and fiercely. He was a tall sallow man, 
with a care-worn head, on which but little hair remained, a deeply- 
lined face, and jDrominent eyes. He had a combative look ; and 
a chafing, irritable manner, which, associated with his figure — 
still large and powerful, though evidently in its decline — rather 
alarmed me. He had a pen in his hand, and, in the glimpse I 
caught of his room in passing, I saw that it was covered with a 
litter of papers. 

Leaving him standing there, we went up to the top room. I 
tapped at the door, and a little shrill voice inside said, " We are 
locked in. Mrs. Blinder's got the key ! " 

I applied the key on hearing this, and opened the door. In a 
poor room, with a sloping ceiling, and containing very little furni- 
ture, was a mite of a boy, some five or six years old, nursing and 
hushing a heavy child of eighteen months. There was no fire, 
though the weather was cold ; both children were wrapped in some 
poor shawls and tippets, as a substitute. Their clothing was not 
so warm, however, but that their noses looked red and pinched, 
and their small figures shranken, as the boy walked up and down, 
nursing and hushing the child with its head on his shoulder. 

" Who has locked you up here alone ? " we naturally asked. 

" Charley," said the boy, standing still to gaze at us. 

" Is Charley your brother 1 " 

" No. She's my sister, Charlotte. Father called her Charley." 

" Are there any more of you besides Charley 1 " 

"Me," said the boy, "and Emma," patting the limp bonnet of 
the child he was nursing. "And Charley." 

" Where is Charley now 1 " 

" Out a washing," said the boy, beginning to walk up and down 
again, and taking the nankeen bonnet much too near the bedstead, 
by trying to gaze at us at the same time. 

We were looking at one another, and at these two children, when 
there came into the room a very little girl, childish in figure but 
shrewd and older-looking in the face — pretty-faced too — wearing 
a womanly sort of bonnet much too large for her, and diying her 
bare arms on a womanly sort of apron. Her fingers were white 



BLEAK HOUSE. 195 

and wrinkled with washing, and the soap-suds were yet smoking 
which she wiped off her arms. But for this, she might have been 
a child, playing at washing, and imitating a poor working-woman 
with a quick observation of the truth. 

She had come running from some place in the neighbourhood, 
and had made all the haste she could. Consequently, though she 
was very light, she was out of breath, and could not speak at first, 
as she stood panting, and wiping her arms, and looking quietly 
at us. 

" 0, here's Charley ! " said the boy. 

The child he was nursing, stretched forth its arms, and cried out 
to be taken by Charley. The little girl took it, in a womanly sort 
of manner belonging to the apron and the bonnet, and stood looking 
at us over the burden that clung to her most affectionately. 

" Is it possible," whispered my Guardian, as we put a chair for 
the little creature, and got her to sit down with her load : the boy 
keeping close to her, holding to her apron, " that this child works 
for the rest ? Look at this ! For God's sake look at this ! " 

It was a thing to look at. The three children close together, and 
two of them relying solely on the third, and the third so young and 
yet with an air of age and steadiness that sat so strangely on the 
childish figure. 

" Charley, Charley ! " said my Guardian. " How old are you 1 " 

"Over thirteen, sir," replied the child. 

"0 ! What a great age," said my Guardian. "What a great 
age, Charley ! " 

I cannot describe the tenderness with which he spoke to her ; half 
playfully, yet all the more compassionately and mournfully. 

" And do you live alone here with these babies, Charley ? " said 
my Guardian. 

"Yes, sir," returned the child, looking up into his face with per- 
fect confidence, " since father died." 

"And how do you live, Charley? ! Charley," said my Guar- 
dian, turning his face away for a moment, " how do you live 1 " 

" Since father died, sir, I've gone out to work. I'm out washing 
to-day." 

" God help you, Charley ! " said my Guardian. " You're not tall 
enough to reach the tub ! " 

" In pattens I am, sir," she said quickly. " I've got a high pair 
as belonged to mother." 

" And when did mother die 1 Poor mother ! " 

"Mother died, just after Emma was born," said the child, glanc- 
ing at the face upon her bosom. "Then father said I was to be as 
good a mother to her as I could. And so I tried. And so I worked 



196 BLEAK HOUSE. 

at home, and did cleaning and nursing and washing, for a long time 
before I began to go out. And that's how I know how ; don't you 
see, sir 1 " 

" And do you often go out ? " 

"As often as I can," said Charley, opening her eyes, and smil- 
ing, "because of earning sixpences and shillings ! " 

" And do you always lock the babies up when you go out ? " 

"To keep 'em safe, sir, don't you see?" said Charley. "Mrs. 
Blinder comes up now and then, and Mr. Gridley comes up some- 
times, and perhaps I can run in sometimes, and they can play you 
know, and Tom an't afraid of being locked up, are you, Tom ? " 

" No-o ! " said Tom, stoutly. 

" When it comes on dark, the lamps are lighted down in the 
court, and they show up here quite bright — almost quite bright. 
Don't they, Tom 1 " 

"Yes, Charley," said Tom, "almost quite bright." 

" Then he's as good as gold," said the little creature — ! in 
such a motherly, womanly way ! " And when Emma's tired, he 
puts her to bed. And when he's tired, he goes to bed himself. 
And when I come home and light the candle, and has a bit of 
supper, he sits up again and has it with me. Don't you, Tom 1" 

" yes, Charley ! " said Tom. " That I do ! " And either in 
this glimpse of the great pleasure of his life, or in gratitude and 
love for Charley, who was all in all to him, he laid his face among 
the scanty folds of her frock, and passed from laughing into crying. 

It was the first time since our entry, that a tear had been shed 
among these children. The little orphan girl had spoken of their 
father, and their mother, as if all that sorrow were subdued by the 
necessity of taking courage, and by her childish importance in being 
able to work, and by her bustling busy way. But, now, when Tom 
cried ; although she sat quite tranquil, looking quietly at us, and 
did not by any movement disturb a hair of the head of either of her 
little charges ; I saw two silent tears fall down her face. 

I stood at the window -with Ada, pretending to look at the house- 
tops, and the blackened stacks of chimneys, and the poor plants, and 
the birds in little cages belonging to the neighbours, when I found 
that Mx'S. Blinder, from the shop below, had come in (perhaps it 
had taken her all this time to get up-stairs) and was talking to my 
Guardian. 

"It's not much to forgive 'em the rent, sir," she said: "who 
could take it from them ! " 

" Well, well ! " said my Guardian to us two. " It is enough 
that the time will come when this good woman will find that it 
was much, and that forasmuch as she did it unto the least of 



BLEAK HOUSE. 197 

these— ! This child," he added, after a few moments, " could she 
possibly continue this ? " 

"Really, sir, I think she might," said Mrs. Blinder, getting her 
heavy breath by painful degrees. " She's as handy as it's possible 
to be. Bless you, sir, the way she tended them two children, after 
the mother died, was the talk of the yard ! And it was a wonder 
to see her with him after he was took ill, it really was ! ' Mrs. 
Blinder,' he said to me the very last he spoke — he was lying 
there — ' Mrs. Blinder, whatever my calling may have been, I see 
a Angel sitting in this room last night along with my child, and I 
trust her to Our Father ! '" 

" He had no other calling ? " said my Guardian. 

"No, sir," returned Mrs. Blinder, "he was nothing but a fol- 
lerer. When he first came to lodge here, I didn't know what 
lie was, and I confess that when I found out I gave him notice. 
It wasn't liked in the yard. It wasn't approved by the other 
lodgers. It is not a genteel calling," said Mrs. Blinder, "and most 
people do object to it. Mr. Gridley objected to it, very strong ; 
and he is a good lodger, though his temper has been hard tried." 

" So you gave him notice ? " said my Guardian. 

"So I gave him notice," said Mrs. Blinder. "But really when 
the time came, and I knew no other ill of him, I was in doubts. 
He was punctual and diligent ; he did what he had to do, sir," said 
Mrs. Blinder, unconsciously fixing Mr. Skimpole with her eye ; 
"and it's something, in this world, even to do that." 

" So you kept him after all 1 " 

" Why, I said that if he could arrange with Mr. Gridley, I could 
arrange it with the other lodgers, and should not so much mind its 
being liked or disliked in the yard. Mr. Gridley gave his consent 
gruff — but gave it. He was always gruft' with him, but he has 
been kind to the children since. A person is never known till a 
person is proved." 

"Have many people been kind to the children?" asked Mr. 
Jaradyce. 

" Upon the whole, not so bad, sir," said Mrs. Blinder ; " but, cer- 
tainly not so many as would have been, if their father's calling had 
been different. Mr. Coavins gave a guinea, and the follerers made 
up a little purse. Some neighbours in the yard, that had always 
joked and tapped their shoulders when he went by, came forward 
with a little subscription, and — in general — not so bad. Simi- 
larly with Charlotte. Some people won't employ her, because she 
was a follerer's child ; some people that do employ her, cast it at 
her ; some make a merit of having her to work for them, with that 
and all her drawbacks upon her : and perhaps pay her less and put 



198 BLEAK HOUSE. 

upon her more. But she's patienter than others would be, and is 
clever too, and always willing, up to the full mark of her strength 
and over. So I should say, in general, not so bad, sir, but might 
be better." 

Mrs. Blinder sat down to give herself a more favourable oppor- 
tunity of recovering her breath, exhausted anew by so much talk- 
ing before it was fully restored. Mr. Jarndyce was turning to 
speak to us, when his attention was attracted, by the abiiipt 
entrance into the room of the Mr. Gridley who had been mentioned, 
and whom we had seen on our way up. 

" I don't know what you may be doing here, ladies and gentle- 
men," he said, as if he resented our presence, "but you'll excuse 
my coming in. I don't come in to stare about me. Well, Charley ! 
Well, Tom ! Well, little one ! How is it with us all to-day 1 " ' 

He bent over the group, in a caressing way, and clearly was 
regarded as a friend by the children, though his face retained its 
stern character, and his manner to us Avas as rude as it could be. 
My Guardian noticed it, and respected it. 

" No one, surely, would come here to stare about him," he said 
mildly. 

" May be so, sir, may be so," returned the other, taking Tom 
upon his knee, and waving him off impatiently. " I don't want to 
argue with ladies and gentlemen. I have had enough of arguing, 
to last one man his life." 

"You have sufficient reason, I dare say," said Mr Jarndyce, 
" for being chafed and irritated " 

" There again ! " exclaimed the man, becoming violently angry. 
" I am of a quarrelsome temper. I am irascible. I am not polite ! " 

" Not very, I think." 

" Sir," said Gridley, putting down the child, and going up to 
him as if he meant to strike him. " Do you know anything of 
Courts of Equity ? " 

" Perhaps I do, to my sorrow. 

" To your sorrow 1 " said the man, pausing in his wrath. " If 
so, I beg your pardon. I am not polite, I know. I beg your par- 
don ! Sir," with renewed violence, "I have been dragged for five- 
and-twenty years over burning iron, and I have lost the habit of 
treading upon velvet. Go into the Court of Chancery yonder, and , 
ask what is one of the standing jokes that brighten up their busi-j 
ness sometimes, and they will tell you that the best joke they have, 
is the man from Shropshire. I," he said, beating one hand on the! 
other, passionately, " am the man from Shropshire." 

" I believe, I and my family have also had the honour of fur- 
nishing some entertainment in the same grave place," said my Guar- 



BLEAK HOUSE. 199 

dian, composedly. " You may have heard my name — Jarn- 
dyce." 
y "Mr. Jarndyce," said Gridley, with a rough sort of salutation, 
"you bear your wrongs more quietly than I can bear mine. More 
than that, I tell you — and I tell this gentleman, and these young 
ladies, if they are friends of yours — that if I took my wrongs in 
any other way, I should be driven mad ! It is only by resenting 
them, and by revenging them in my mind, and by angrily demand- 
ing the justice I never get, that I am able to keep my wits together. 
It is only that ! " he said, speaking in a homely, rustic way, and 
with great vehemence. " You may tell me that I over-excite myself. 
I answer that it's in my nature to do it, under wrong, and I must 
do it. There's nothing between doing it, and sinking into the 
smiling state of the poor little mad woman that haunts the Court. 
If I was once to sit down under it, I should become imbecile." 

The passion and heat in which he was, and the manner in which 
his face worked, and the violent gestures with which he accom- 
panied what he said, were most painful to see. 

" Mr. Jarndyce," he said, " consider my case. As true as there 
is a Heaven above us, this is my case. I am one of two brothers. 
My father (a farmer) made a will, and left his farm and stock, and 
so forth, to my mother, for her life. After my mother's death, all 
was to come to me, except a legacy of three hundred pounds that 
I was then to pay my brother. My mother died. My brother, 
some time afterwards, claimed his legacy. I, and some of my rela- 
tions, said that he had had a part of it already, in board and lodg- 
ing, and some other things. Now, mind ! That was the question, 
and nothing else. No one disputed the will ; no one disputed any- 
thing but whether part of that three hundred pounds had been 
already paid or not. To settle that question, my brother filing a 
bill, I was obliged to go into this accursed Chancery ; I was forced 
there, because the law forced me, and would let me go nowhere 
else. Seventeen people were made defendants to that simple suit ! 
It first came on, after two years. It was then stopped for another 
two years, while the Master (may his head rot off"!) inquired 
whether I was my father's son — about which, there was no dis- 
pute at all with any mortal creature. He then found out, that 
there were not defendants enough — remember, there were only 
seventeen as yet ! — but, that we must have another who had been 
left out ; and must begin all over again. The costs at that time — 
before the thing was begun ! — were three times the legacy. My 
brother would have given up the legacy, and joyful, to escape more 
costs. My whole estate, left to me in that will of my father's, has 
gone in costs. The suit, still undecided, has fallen into rack, and 



200 BLEAK HOUSE. 

ruin, and despair, with everything else — and here I stand, this 
day ! Now, Mr. Jamdyce, in your suit there are thousands and 
thousands involved where in mine there are hundreds. Is mine 
less hard to bear, or is it harder to bear, when my whole living 
was in it, and has been thus shamefully sucked away 1 " 

Mr. Jarndyce said that he condoled with him with all his heart, 
and that he set up no monopoly, himself, in being unjustly treated 
by this monstrous system. 

" There again ! " said Mr. Gridley, with no diminution of his 
rage. " The system ! I am told, on all hands, it's the system. 
I mustn't look to individuals. It's the system. I mustn't go into 
Court, and say, ' My Lord, I beg to know this from you — is this 
right or wrong 1 Have you the face to tell me I have received 
justice, and therefore am dismissed?' My Lord knows nothing of 
it. He sits there, to administer the system. I mustn't go to Mr. 
Tulkinghorn, the solicitor in Lincoln's Inn Fields, and say to him 
when he makes me furious, by being so cool and satisfied — as 
they all do ; for I know they gain by it while I lose, don't I ? — I 
mustn't say to him, I will have something out of some one for my 
ruin, by fair means or foul ! He is not responsible. It's the sys- 
tem. But, if I do no violence to any of them, here — I may ! I 
don't know what may happen if I am carried beyond myself at 
last ! — I will accuse the individual workers of that system against 
me, face to face, before the great eternal bar ! " 

His passion was fearful. I could not have believed in such rage 
without seeing it. 

" I have done ! " he said, sitting down and wiping his face. 
" Mr. Jarndyce, I have done ! I am violent, I know. I ought to ■ 
know it. I have been in prison for contempt of Court. I have ■ 
been in jirison for threatening the solicitor. I have been in this 
trouble, and that trouble, and shall be again. I am the man from 
Shropshire, and I sometimes go beyond amusing them — though 
they have found it amusing, too, to see me committed into custody, 
and brought up in custody, and all that. It would be better for 
me, they tell me, if I restrained myself. I tell them, that if I did 
restrain myself, I should become imbecile. I was a good-enough- 
tempered man once, I believe. People in my part of the countiy, 
say, they remember me so ; but, now, I must have this vent under 
my sense of injury, or nothing could hold my wits together. ' It 
would be far better for you, Mr. Gridley,' the Lord Chancellor 
told me last week, ' not to waste your time here, and to stay, use- 
fully employed, down in Shropshire.' ' My Lord, my Lord, I 
know it would,' said I to him, * and it would have been far better 
for me never to have heard the name of your high office ; but, un- 



BLEAK HOUSE. 201 

happily for me, I can't undo the past, and the past drives me 
here!' — Besides," he added, breaking fiercely out, "I'll shame 
them. To the last, I'll show myself in that Court to its shame. 
If I knew when I was going to die, and could be carried there, and 
had a voice to speak with, I would die there, saying, ' You have 
brought me here, and sent me from here, many and many a time. 
Now send me out, feet foremost ! ' " 

His countenance had, perhaps for years, become so set in its 
contentious expression that it did not soften, even now when he 
was quiet. 

" I came to take these babies down to my room for an hour," 
he said, going to them again, " and let them play about. I didn't 
mean to say all this, but it don't much signify. You're not afraid 
of me, Tom ; are you ? " 

" No ! " said Tom. "You ain't angry with me." 

" You are right, my child. You're going back, Charley 1 Aye ? 
Come then, little one ! " He took the youngest child on his arm, 
where she was willing enough to be carried. " I shouldn't wonder 
if we found a gingerbread soldier down-stairs. Let's go and look 
for him ! " 

He made his former rough salutation, which was not deficient in 
a certain respect, to Mr. Jarndyce ; and bowing slightly to us, 
went down-stairs to his room. 

Upon that, Mr. Skimpole began to talk, for the first time since 
our arrival, in his usual gay strain. He said. Well, it was really 
very pleasant to see how things lazily adapted themselves to pur- 
poses. Here was this Mr. Gridley, a man of a robust will, and 
surprising energy — intellectually speaking, a sort of inharmonious 
blacksmith — and he could easily imagine that there Gridley was, 
years ago, wandering about in life for something to expend his 
superfluous combativeness upon — a sort of Young Love among 
the thorns — when the Court of Chancery came in his way, and 
accommodated him with the exact thing he wanted. There they 
were, matched, ever afterwards ! Otherwise he might have been a 
great general, blowing up all sorts of towns, or he might have been 
a great politician, dealing in all sorts of parliamentary rhetoric ; 
but, as it was, he and the Court of Chancery had fallen upon each 
other in the pleasantest way, and nobody was much the worse, and 
Gridley was, so to speak, from that hour provided for. Then look 
at Coavinses ! How delightfully poor Coavinses (father of these 
charming children) illustrated the same principle ! He, Mr. Skim- 
pole, himself, had sometimes repined at the existence of Coavinses. 
He had found Coavinses in his way. He could have dispensed 
with Coavinses. There had been times when, if he had been a 



202 BLEAK HOUSE. 

Sultan, and his Grrand Vizier had said one morning, "What does 
the Commander of the Faithful require at the hands of his slave 1 " 
he might have even gone so far as to reply, " The head of Coav- 
inses ! " But what turned out to be the case ? That, all that 
time, he had been giving employment to a most deserving man ; 
that he had been a benefactor to Coavinses ; that he had actually 
been enabling Coavinses to bring up these charming children in 
this agreeable way, developing these social virtues ! Insomuch 
that his heart had just now swelled, and the tears had come into his 
eyes, when he had looked round the room, and thought, " /was the 
great patron of Coavinses, and his little comforts were ?ni/ work ! " 
There was something so captivating in his liglit way of touching 
these fantastic strings, and he was such a mirthful child by the 
side of the graver childhood we had seen, that he made my Guar- 
dian smile even as he turned towards us from a little private talk 
with Mrs. Blinder. We kissed Charley, and took her down-stairs 
with us, and stopped outside the house to see her run away to her 
work. I don't know where she was going, but we saw her ran, 
such a little, little creature, in her womanly bonnet and apron, 
through a covered way at the bottom of the court ; and melt into 
the city's strife and sound, like a dewdrop in an ocean. 



CHAPTER XVI. 

tom-all-alone's. 

My Lady Dedlock is restless, very restless. The astonished 
fashionable intelligence hardly knows where to have her. To-day, 
she is at Chesney Wold ; yesterday, she was at her house in town ; 
to-morrow, she may be abroad, for anything the fashionable intelli-. 
gence can with confidence predict. Even Sir Leicester's gallantry 
has some trouble to keep pace with her. It would have more, 
but that his other faithful ally, for better and for worse — the 
gout — darts into the old oak bed-chamber at Chesney Wold, and 
grips him by both legs. 

Sir Leicester receives the gout as a troublesome demon, but still 
a demon of the patrician order. All the Dedlocks, in the direct 
male line, through a course of time during and beyond which the 
memory of man goeth not to the contrary, have had the gout. U 
can be proved, sir. Other men's fathers may have died of the 
rheumatism, or may have taken base contagion from the tainted 
blood of the sick vulgar ; but the Dedlock family have communi- 
cated something exclusive, even to the levelling process of dying,! 



BLEAK HOUSE. 203 

by dying of their own family gout. It has come down, through 
the iUustrious line, like the plate, or the pictures, or the place in 
Lincolnshire. It is among their dignities. Sir Leicester is, per- 
haps, not wholly without an impression, though he has never 
resolved it into words, that the angel of death in the discharge of 
his necessary duties may observe to the shades of the aristocracy, 
" My lords and gentlemen, I have the honour to present to you 
another Dedlock certified to have arrived per the family gout." 

Hence, Sir Leicester yields up his family legs to the family dis- 
order, as if he held his name and fortune on that feudal tenure. 
He feels, that for a Dedlock to be laid upon his back and spasmodi- 
cally twitched and stabbed in his extremities, is a liberty taken 
somewhere ; but, he thinks, " We have all yielded to this ; it be- 
longs to us ; it has, for some hundreds of years, been understood 
that we are not to make the vaults in the park interesting on more 
ignoble terms ; and I submit myself to the compromise." 

And a goodly show he makes, lying in a flush of crimson and 
gold, in the midst of the great drawing-room, before his favourite 
picture of my Lady, with broad strips of sunlight shining in, down 
the long perspective, through the long line of windows, and alter- 
nating with, soft reliefs of shadow. Outside, the stately oaks, 
rooted for ages in the green ground which has never known plough- 
share, but was still a Chase when kings rode to battle with sword 
and shield, and rode a hunting with bow and arrow ; bear witness 
to his greatness. Inside, his forefathers, looking on him from the 
walls, say, " Each of us was a passing reality here, and left this 
coloured shadow of himself, and melted into remembrance as dreamy 
as the distant voices of the rooks now lulling you to rest ; " and bear 
their testimony to his greatness, too. And he is very great this day. 
And woe to Boy thorn, or other daring wight, wdio shall presump-' 
tuously contest an inch with him ! 

My Lady is at present represented, near Sir Leicester, by her 
portrait. She has flitted away to town, with no intention of re- 
maining there, and will soon flit hither again, to the confusion of 
the fashionable intelligence. The house in town is not prepared 
for her reception. It is muffled and dreary. Only one Mercury 
in powder, gapes disconsolate at the hall-window ; and he mentioned 
last night to another Mercury of his acquaintance, also accustomed 
to good society, that if that sort of thing was to last — which it 
couldn't, for a man of his spirits couldn't bear it, and a man of his 
figure couldn't be expected to bear it — there would be no resource 
for him, upon his honour, but to cut his throat ! 

What connection can there be, between the place in Lincolnshire, 
the house in town, the Mercury in powder, and the whereabout of 



204 BLEAK HOUSE. 

Jo the outlaw with the broom, who had that distant ray of light 
upon him when he swept the churchyard-step 1 What connection 
can there have been between many people in the innumerable his- 
tories of this world, who, from opposite sides of great gulfs, have, 
nevertheless, been very curiously brought together ! 

Jo sweeps his crossing all day long, unconscious of the link, if 
any link there be. He sums up his mental condition, when asked 
a question, by replying that he " don't know nothink." He knows 
that it's hard to keep the mud off the crossing in dirty weather, 
and harder still to live by doing it. Nobody taught him, even 
that much ; he found it out. 

Jo lives — that is to say, Jo has not yet died — in a ruinous 
place, known to the like of him by the name of Tom-all-Alone's. 
It is a black, dilapidated street, avoided by all decent people; 
where the crazy houses were seized upon, when their decay was far 
advanced, by some bold vagrants, who, after establishing their own 
possession, took to letting them out in lodgings. Now, these tum- 
bling tenements contain, by night, a swarm of misery. As, on the 
ruined human wretch, vermin parasites appear, so, these n;ined 
shelters have bred a crowd of foul existence that crawls in and out 
of gaps in walls and boards ; and coils itself to sleep, in maggot 
numbers, where the rain drips in ; and comes and goes, fetching 
and carrying fever, and sowing more evil in its every footprint than 
Lord Coodle, and Sir Thomas Doodle, and the Duke of Foodie, and 
all the fine gentlemen in office, down to Zoodle, shall set right in 
five hundred years — though born expressly to do it. 

Twice, lately, there has been a crash and a cloud of dust, like 
the springing of a mine, in Tom-all-Alone's ; and, each time, a house 
has fallen. These accidents have made a paragraph in the news- 
papers, and have filled a bed or two in the nearest hospital. The 
gaps remain, and there are not unpopular lodgings among the rub- 
bish. As several more houses are nearly ready to go, the next 
crash in Tom-all-Alone's may be expected to be a good one. 

This desirable property is in Chancery, of course. It would be 
an insult to the discernment of any man A^ath half an eye, to tell 
him so. Whether " Tom " is the popular representative of the 
original plaintift' or defendant in Jarndyce and Jarndyce ; or, 
whether Tom lived here when the suit had laid the street waste, 
all alone, until other settlers came to join him ; or, whether the 
traditional title is a comprehensive name for a retreat cut off from 
honest company and put out of the pale of hope ; perhaps nobody 
knows. Certainly, Jo don't know. 

" For / don't," says Jo, "/don't know nothink." 

It must be a strange state to be like Jo ! To shuffle through 



BLEAK HOUSE. 205 

the streets, unfamiliar with the shapes, and in utter darkness as to 
the meaning, of those mysterious symbols, so abundant over the 
shops, and at the corners of streets, and on the doors, and in the 
windows ! To see people read, and to see people write, and to see 
the postmen deliver letters, and not to have the least idea of all 
that language — to be, to every scrap of it, stone blind and dumb ! 
It must be very puzzling to see the good company going to the 
churches on Sundays, with their books in their hands, and to think 
(for perhaps Jo does think, at odd times) what does it all mean, 
and if it means anything to anybody, how comes it that it means 
nothing to me 1 To be hustled, and jostled, and moved on ; 
and really to feel that it would appear to be perfectly true that I 
have no business, here, or there, or anywhere ; and yet to be per- 
plexed by the consideration that I am here somehow, too, and 
everybody overlooked me until I became the creature that I am ! 
It must be a strange state, not merely to be told that I am scarcely 
human (as in the case of my offering myself for a witness), but to 
feel it of my own knowledge all my life ! To see the horses, dogs, 
and cattle, go by me, and to know that in ignorance I belong to 
them, and not to the superior beings in my shape, whose delicacy 
I offend ! Jo's ideas of a Criminal Trial, or a Judge, or a Bishop, or 
a Government, or that inestimable jewel to him (if he only knew 
it) the Constitution, should be strange ! His whole material and 
immaterial life is wonderfully strange ; his death, the strangest 
thing of all. 

Jo comes out of Tom-all-Alone's, meeting the tardy morning 
which is always late in getting down there, and munches his dirty 
bit of bread as he comes along. His way lying through many 
streets, and the houses not yet being open, he sits down to break- 
fast on the door-step of the Society for the Propagation of the 
Gospel in Foreign Parts, and gives it a brush when he has finished, 
as an acknowledgment of the accommodation. He admires the 
size of the edifice, and wonders what it's all about. He has no 
idea, poor wretch, of the spiritual destitution of a coral reef in the 
Pacific, or what it costs to look up the precious souls among the 
cocoa-nuts and bread-fruit. 

He goes to his crossing, and begins to lay it out for the day. 
The town awakes ; the great tee-totum is set up for its daily spin 
and whirl ; all that unaccountable reading and writing, which has 
been suspended for a few hours, recommences. Jo, and the other 
lower animals, get on in the unintelligible mess as they can. It is 
market-day. The blinded oxen, over-goaded, over-driven, never 
guided, run into wrong places and are beaten out ; and plunge, red- 
eyed and foaming, at stone walls ; and often sorely hurt the inno- 



206 BLEAK HOUSE. 

cent, and often sorely hurt themselves. Very like Jo and his 
order ; very, very like ! 

A band of music comes, and plays. Jo listens to it. So does a 
dog — a drover's dog, waiting for his master outside a butcher's 
shop, and evidently thinking about those sheep he has had upon 
his mind for some hours, and is happily rid of. He seems per- 
plexed respecting three or four ; can't remember where he left 
them ; looks up and down the street, as half expecting to see them 
astray ; suddenly pricks up his ears and remembers all about it. A 
thoroughly vagabond dog, accustomed to low comiDany and public- 
houses ; a terrific dog to sheep ; ready at a whistle to scamper over 
their backs, and tear out mouthfuls of their wool ; but an educated, 
improved, developed dog, who has been taught his duties and knows 
how to discharge them. He and Jo listen to the music, jorobably 
with much the same amount of animal satisfaction ; likewise, as to 
awakened association, aspiration or regret, melancholy or joyful 
reference to things beyond the senses, they are probably upon a 
par. But, otherwise, how far above the human listener is the 
brute ! 

Turn that dog's descendants mid, like Jo, and in a very few 
years they "will so degenerate that they will lose even their bark — 
but not their bite. 

The day changes as it wears itself away, and becomes dark and 
drizzly. Jo fights it out, at his crossing, among the mud and 
wheels, the horses, whips, and umbrellas, and gets but a scanty 
sum to pay for the unsavoury shelter of Tom-all- Alone's. Twilight 
comes on ; gas begins to start up in the shops ; the lamplighter, 
with his ladder, runa along the margin of the pavement. A 
wretched evening is beginning to close in. 

In his chambers, Mr. Tulkinghorn sits meditating an application 
to the nearest magistrate to-morrow morning for a warrant. Grid- 
ley, a disappointed suitor, has been here to-day, and has been 
alarming. We are not to be put in bodily fear, and that ill-condi- 
tioned fellow shall be held to bail again. From the ceiling, fore- 
shortened Allegory, in the person of one impossible Roman upside 
down, points with the arm of Samson (out of joint, and an odd ■ 
one) obtrusively toward the window. Why should Mr. Tulking- 
horn, for such no-reason, look out of window ? Is the hand not 
always pointing there ? So he does not look out of window. 

And if he did, what would it be to see a woman going by? 
There are women enough in the world, Mr. Tulkinghorn thinks — 
too many ; they are at the bottom of all that goes wrong in it, 
though, for the matter of that, they create business for lawyers. 
What would it be to see a woman going by, even though she were 



BLEAK HOUSE. 207 

going secretly? They are all secret. Mr. Tulkinghorn knows 
that, very well. 

But they are not all like the woman who now leaves him and 
his house behind ; between whose plain dress, and her refined man- 
ner, there is something exceedingly inconsistent. She should be an 
upper servant by her attire, yet, in her air and step, though both 
are hurried and assumed — as far as she can assume in the muddy 
streets, which she treads with an unaccustomed foot — she is a 
lady. Her face is veiled, and still she sufiiciently betrays herself 
to make more than one of those who pass her look round sharply. 

She never turns her head. Lady or servant, she has a purpose 
in her, and can follow it. She never turns her head, until she 
comes to the crossing where Jo plies with his broom. He crosses 
with her, and begs. Still, she does not turn her head until she 
has landed on the other side. Then, she slightly beckons to him, 
and says " Come here ! " 

Jo follows her, a pace or two, into a quiet court. 

" Are you the boy I have read of in the papers ? " she asks behind 
her veil. 

" I don't know," says Jo, staring moodily at the veil, "nothink 
about no papers. I don't know nothink about nothink at all." 

" Were you examined at an Inquest 1 " 

" I don't know nothink about no — where I was took by the 
beadle, do you mean ? " says Jo. " Was the boy's name at the 
Inkwhich, Jo ? " 

"Yes." 

" That's me ! " says Jo. 

" Come farther up." 

" You mean about the man ? " says Jo, following. " Him as wos 
dead ? " 

" Hush ! Speak in a whisper ! Yes. Did he look, when he 
was living, so very ill and poor ? " 

"0 jist !" says Jo. 

"Did he look like — not like you?" says the woman with 
abhorrence. 

"0 not so bad as me," says Jo. "I'm a reg'lar one, / am! 
You didn't know him, did you 1 " 

" How dare you ask me if I knew him 1 " 

" No offence, my lady," says Jo, with much humility ; for even 
he has got at the suspicion of her being a lady. 

" I am not a lady. I am a servant." 

" You are a jolly servant ! " says Jo ; without the least idea of 
saying anything offensive ; merely as a tribute of admiration. 

"Listen and be silent. Don't talk to me, and stand farther 




CONSECRATED GROUND. 



BLEAK HOUSE. 209 

from me ! Can you show me all those places that were spoken of 
in the account I read ? The place he wrote for, the place he died 
at, the place where you were taken to, and the place where he was 
buried 1 Do you know the place where he was buried ? " 

Jo answers mth a nod ; having also nodded as each other place 
was mentioned. 

"Go before me, and show me all those dreadful places. Stop 
opposite to each, and don't sjDeak to me unless I speak to you. 
Don't look back. Do what I want, and I will pay you well." 

Jo attends closely while the words are being spoken ; tells them 
off on his broom-handle, finding them rather hard ; pauses to con- 
sider their meaning ; considers it satisfactory, and nods his ragged 
head. 

" I am fly," says Jo. " But fen larks, you know ! Stow hooking 
it!" 

" What does the horrible creature mean? " exclaims the servant, 
recoiling from him. 

" Stow cutting away, you know ! " says Jo. 

" I don't understand you. Go on before ! I will give you more 
money than you ever had in your life." 

Jo screws up his mouth into a whistle, gives his ragged head a 
rub, takes his broom under his arm, and leads the way; passing 
deftly, with his bare feet, over the hard stones, and through the 
mud and mire. 

Cook's Court. Jo stops. A pause. 

" Who lives here 1 " 

" Him wot give him his writing, and give me half a bull," says 
Jo, in a whisper, without looking over his shoulder. 

"Go on to the next." 

Krook's house. Jo stops again. A longer pause. 

" Who lives here 1 " 

"He lived here," Jo answers as before. 

After a silence, he is asked " In which room ? " 

" In the back room up there. You can see the winder from this 
corner. Up there ! That's where I see him stritched out. This 
is the public ouse where I was took to." 

" Go on to the next ! " 

It is a longer walk to the next ; but, Jo, relieved of his first sus- 
picions, sticks to the terms imposed upon him, and does not look 
round. By many devious ways, reeking with offence of many kinds, 
they come to the little tunnel of a court, and to the gas-lamp 
(lighted now), and to the iron gate. 

" He was put there," says Jo, holding to the bars and looking in. 

" Where 1 0, what a scene of horror ! " 



210 BLEAK HOUSE. 

" There !" says Jo, pointing. " Over yinder. Among them piles 
of bones, and close to that there kitchin winder ! They put him 
weiy nigh the top. They was obliged to stamp upon it to git it 
in. I could unkiver it for you, with my broom, if the gate was 
open. That's why they locks it, I s'pose," giving it a shake. " It's 
always locked. Look at the rat ! " cries Jo, excited. " Hi ! Look ! 
There he goes ! Ho ! Into the ground ! " 

The sei-vant shrinks into a corner — into a corner of that hideous 
archway, with its deadly stains contaminating her dress ; and put- 
ting out her two hands, and passionately telling him to keep away 
from her, for he is loathsome to her, so remains for some moments. 
Jo stands staring, and is still staring when she recovers herself. 

" Is this place of abomination, consecrated ground ? " 

" I don't know nothink of consequential ground," says Jo, still 
staring. 

" Is it blessed 1 " 

" Which 1 " says Jo, in the last degree amazed. 

"Is it blessed?" 

" I'm blest if I know," says Jo, staring more than ever ; " but I 
shouldn't think it warn't. Blest ? " repeats Jo, something troubled 
in his mind. " It an't done it much good if it is. Blest ? I 
should think it was t'othered myself But / don't know nothink ! " 

The servant takes as little heed of what he says, as she seems 
to take of what she has said herself She draws off her glove, to 
get some money from her purse. Jo sUently notices how white and 
small her hand is, and what a jolly servant she must be to wear 
such sparkling rings. 

She drops a piece of. money in his hand, without touching it, and 
shuddering as their hands approach. " Now," she adds, " show me 
the spot again ! " 

Jo thrusts the handle of his broom between the bars of the _ 
gate, and, with his utmost power of elaboration, points it out. At ' 
length, looking aside to see if he has made himself intelUgible, he ' 
finds that he is alone. 

His first proceeding, is, to hold the piece of money to the gas- 
light, and to be overpowered at finding that it is yellow — gold. 
His next, is, to give it a one-sided bite at the edge, as a test of its 
quality. His next, to put it in his mouth for safety, and to sweep 
the step and passage with great care. His job done, he sets ofi" for 
Tom-all- Alone's ; stopping in the light of innumerable gas-lamps to 
produce the piece of gold, and give it another one-sided bite, as a 
re-assurance of its being genuine. 

The Mercury in powder is in no want of society to-night, for my 
Lady goes to a grand dinner and three or four balls. Sir Leicester 



« 



BLEAK HOUSE, 211 

is fidgety, down at Chesney Wold, with no better company tlian tlie 
gout ; be complains to Mrs. Rouncewell that the rain makes such 
a monotonous pattering on the terrace, that he can't read the paper, 
even by the fireside in his own snug dressing-room. 

" Sir Leicester would have done better to try the other side of 
the house, my dear," says Mrs. Rouncewell to Rosa. "His dress- 
ing-room is on my Lady's side. And in all these years I never 
heard the step upon the Ghost's Walk, more distinct than it is 
to-night ! " 



CHAPTER XVII. 

Esther's narrative. 

Richard very often came to see us while we remained in Lon- 
don (though he soon failed in his letter- writing), and with his quick 
abilities, his good spirits, his good temper, his gaiety and freshness, 
was always delightful. But, though I liked him more and more, 
the better I knew him, I still felt more and more how much it 
was to be regretted that he had been educated in no habits of 
application and concentration. The system which had addressed 
him in exactly the same manner as it had addressed hundreds of 
other boys, all varying in character and capacity, had enabled him 
to dash through his tasks, always with fair credit, and often with 
distinction ; but in a fitful, dazzling way that had confirmed his 
reliance on those very qualities in himself, which it had been most 
desirable to direct and train. They were great qualities, without 
which no high place can be meritoriously won ; but, like fire and 
water, though excellent servants, they were very bad masters. If 
they had been under Richard's direction, they would have been his 
friends ; but, Richard being under their direction, they became his 
enemies. 

I write down these opinions, not because I believe that this or 
any other thing was so, because I thought so ; but only because I 
did think so, and I want to be quite candid about all I thought 
and did. These were my thoughts about Richard. I thought I 
often observed besides, how right my Guardian was in what he had 
said ; and that the imcertainties and delays of the Chancery suit 
had imparted to his nature something of the careless spirit of a 
gamester, who felt that he was part of a great gaming system. 

Mr. and Mrs. Bayham Badger coming one afternoon, when my 
Guardian was not at home, in the course of conversation I naturally 
inquired after Richard. 



212 BLEAK HOUSE. 

" Why, Mr. Carstone," said Mrs. Badger, "is very well, and is, 1 1 
assure you, a great acquisition to our society. Captain Swosser 
used to say of me that I was always better than land ahead and - 
a breeze astarn to the midshipmen's mess when the purser's junk I 
had become as tough as the fore-topsel weather earings. It was ' 
his naval way of mentioning generally that I was an acquisition to 
any society. I may render the same tribute, I am sure, to Mr. 
Carstone. But I — you won't think me premature if I mention it ? " 

I said no, as Mrs. Badger's insinuating tone seemed to require 
such an answer. 

" Nor Miss Clare ? " said Mrs. Bayham Badger, sweetly. 

Ada said no, too, and looked uneasy. 

"Why, you see, my dears," said Mrs. Badger — "you'll excuse 
my calling you my dears 1" 

We entreated Mrs. Badger not to mention it. 

"Because you really are, if I may take the liberty of saying so," 
pursued Mrs. Badger, " so perfectly charming. You see, my dears, 
that although I am still young — or Mr. Bayham Badger pays me 
the compliment of saying so — " 

" No," Mr. Badger called out, like some one contradicting at a 
public meeting. " Not at all ! " 

" Very well," smiled Mrs. Badger, "we will say still young." 

(" Undoubtedly," said Mr. Badger.) 

" My dears, though still young, I have had many opportunities 
of observing young men. There were many such on board the dear 
old Crippler, I assure you. After that, when I was with Captain 
Swosser in the Mediterranean, I embraced every opportunity of 
knowing and befriending the midshipmen under Captain Swosser's 
command. You never heard them called the young gentlemen, my 
dears, and probably would not understand allusions to their pipe- 
claying their weekly accounts ; but it is otherwise with me, for 
blue water has been a second home to me, and I have been quite ■ 
a sailor. Again, with Professor Dingo." 

(" A man of European reputation," murmured Mr. Badger.) 

" When I lost my dear first, and became the wife of my dear 
second," said Mrs. Badger, speaking of her former husbands as if 
they were parts of a charade, " I still enjoyed opportunities of 
observing youth. The class attendant on Professor Dingo's lectures 
was a large one, and it became my pride, as the wife of an eminent 
scientific man seeking herself in science the utmost consolation it 
could impart, to throw our house open to the students, as a kind 
of Scientific Exchange. Every Tuesday evening there was lem- 
onade and a mixed biscuit, for all who chose to partake of those 
refreshments. And there was Science to an unlimited extent." 



BLEAK HOUSE. 213 

("Remarkable assemblies those, Miss Summerson," said Mr. 
Badger, reverentially. " There must have been great intellectual 
friction going on there, under the auspices of such a man ! ") 

"And now," pursued Mrs. Badger, " now that I am the wife of 
my dear third, Mr. Badger, I still pursue those habits of observa- 
tion which were formed during the lifetime of Captain Swosser, 
and adapted to new and unexpected purposes during the lifetime 
of Professor Dingo. I therefore have not come to the considera- 
tion of Mr. Carstone as a Neophyte. And yet I am very much 
of the opinion, my dears, that he has not chosen his profession 
advisedly." 

Ada looked so very anxious now, that I asked Mrs. Badger on 
what she founded her supposition ? 

"My dear Miss Summerson," she replied, "on Mr. Carstone's 
character and conduct. He is of such a very easy disposition, that 
probably he would never think it worth while to mention how he 
really feels ; but, he feels languid about the profession. He has 
not that positive interest in it which makes it his vocation. If he 
has any decided impression in reference to it, I should say it was 
that it is a tiresome pursuit. Now, this is not promising. Young 
men, like Mr. Allan Woodcourt, who take to it from a strong interest 
in all that it can do, will find some reward in it through a great 
deal of work for a very little money, and through years of consider- 
able endurance and disappointment. But I am quite convinced 
that this would never be the case with Mr. Carstone." 

" Does Mr. Badger think so too 1 " asked Ada, timidly. 

"Why," said Mr. Badger, "to tell the truth, Miss Clare, this 
view of the matter had not occurred to me until Mrs. Badger men- 
tioned it. But, when Mrs. Badger put it in that light, I naturally 
gave great consideration to it ; knowing that Mrs. Badger's mind, 
in addition to its natural advantages, has had the rare advantage 
of being formed by two such very distinguished (I will even say 
illustrious) public men as Captain Swosser of the Royal Navy and 
Professor Dingo. The conclusion at which I have arrived is — in 
short, is Mrs. Badger's conclusion." 

" It was a maxim of Captain Swosser's," said Mrs. Badger, " speak- 
ing in his figurative naval manner, that when you make pitch hot, 
you cannot make it too hot ; and that if you only have to swab a 
plank, you should swab it as if Davy Jones were after you. It 
appears to me that this maxim is applicable to the medical, as well 
as to the nautical profession." 

"To all professions," observed Mr. Badger. " It was admirably 
said by Captain Swosser. Beautifully said." 

" People objected to Professor Dingo, when we were staying in 



214 BLEAK HOUSE. 

the North of Devon, after our marriage," said Mrs. Badger, "that 
he disfigured some of the houses and other buildings, by chipping 
off fragments of those edifices mth his little geological hammer. 
But the Professor replied, that he knew of no building, save the 
Temple of Science. The principle is the same, I think ? " 

"Precisely the same," said Mr. Badger. "Finely expressed! 
The Professor made the same remark. Miss Summerson, in his last 
illness ; when (his mind wandering) he insisted on keeping his little 
hammer under the pillow, and chipping at the countenances of the 
attendants. The ruling passion ! " 

Although we could have dispensed with the length at which Mr. 
and Mrs. Badger pursued the conversation, we both felt that it was 
disinterested in them to express the opinion they had communicated 
to us, and that there was a great probability of its being sound. 
We agreed to say nothing to Mr. Jarndyce until we had spoken to 
Richard ; and, as he was coming next evening, we resolved to have 
a very serious talk with him. 

So, after he had been a little while with Ada, I went in and 
found my darling (as I knew she would be) prepared to considei 
him thoroughly right in whatever he said. 

" And how do you get on, Richard 1 " said I. I always sat dowij 
on the other side of him. He made quite a sister of me. 

" ! well enough ! " said Richard. 

" He can't say better than that, Esther, can he ? " cried my pet, 
triumphantly. 

I tried to look at my pet in the wisest manner, but of course I 
couldn't. 

"Well enough?" I. repeated. 

"Yes," said Richard, "well enough. It's rather jog-trotty and 
humdrum. But it'll do as well as anything else ! " 

" ! my dear Richard ! " I remonstrated. 

" What's the matter ? " said Richard. 

" Do as well as anything else ! " 

"I don't think there's any harm in that, Dame Durden," saic 
Ada, looking so confidingly at me across him ; " because if it wiL 
do as well as anything else, it will do very well, I hope." 

"0 yes, I hope so," returned Richard, carelessly tossing his haii 
from his forehead. "After all, it may be only a kind of probation 
till our suit is — I forgot though. I am not to mention the suit, 
Forbidden ground ! yes, it's all right enough. Let us talk 
about something else." 

Ada would have done so, willingly, and with a full persuasionT 
that we had brought the question to a most satisfactory state. 
But I thought it would be useless to stop there, so I began again. 



BLEAK HOUSE. 215 

"No, but Richard," said I, "and my dear Ada ! Consider how 
important it is to you both, and what a point of honour it is towards 
your cousin, that you, Richard, should be quite in earnest without 
any reservation. I think we had better talk about this, really, 
Ada. It will be too late, very soon." 

" yes ! We must talk about it ! " said Ada. " But I think 
Richard is right." 

What was the use of my trying to look wise, when she was so 
pretty, and so engaging, and so fond of him ! 

"Mr. and Mrs. Badger were here yesterday, Richard," said I, 
" and they seemed disposed to think that you had no great liking 
for the profession." 

" Did they though 1 " said Richard. " ! Well, that rather 
alters the case, because I had no idea that they thought so, and I 
should not have liked to disappoint or inconvenience them. The 
fact is, I don't care much about it. But O, it don't matter ! It'll 
do as well as anything else ! " 

" You hear him, Ada ! " said I. 

"The fact is," Richard proceeded, half thoughtfully and half 
jocosely, " it is not quite in ray way. I don't take to it. And I 
get too much of Mrs. Bayham Badger's first and second." 

" I am sure that's veiy natural ! " cried Ada, quite delighted. 
" The very thing we both said yesterday, Esther ! " 

" Then," pursued Richard, " it's monotonous, and to-day is too 
like yesterday, and to-morrow is too like to-day." 

"But I am afraid," said I, "this is an objection to all kinds of 
application — to life itself, except under some very uncommon cir- 
cumstances." 

" Do you think so 1 " returned Richard, still considering. " Per- 
haps ! Ha ! Why, then, you know," he added, suddenly becom- 
ing gay again, "we travel outside a circle, to what I said just now. 
It'll do as well as anything else. 0, it's all right enough ! Let 
us talk about something else." 

But, even Ada, with her loving face — and if it had seemed 
innocent and trusting, when I first saw it in that memorable 
November fog, how much more so did it seem now, when I knew 
her innocent and trusting heart — even Ada shook her head at this, 
and looked serious. So I thought it a good opportunity to hint to 
Richard, that if he were sometimes a little careless of himself, I 
was very sure he never meant to be careless of Ada ; and that it 
was a part of his affectionate consideration for her, not to slight 
the importance of a step that might influence both their lives. 
This made him almost grave. 

"My dear Mother Hubbard," he said, " that's the very thing ! 



216 BLEAK HOUSE. 

I have thought of that, several times ; and have been quite angry 
with myself for meaning to be so much in earnest, and — somehow 
— not exactly being so. I don't know how it is ; I seem to want 
something or other to stand by. Even you have no idea how fond 
I am of Ada (my darling cousin, I love you, so much ! ), but I don't 
settle down to constancy in other things. It's such uphill work, 
and it takes such a time ! " said Richard, with an air of vexation, 

"That may be," I suggested, "because you don't like what 
you have chosen." 

" Poor fellow ! " said Ada. " I am sure I don't wonder at it ! " 

No. It was not of the least use my trying to look wise. I tried 
again ; but how could I do it, or how could it have any effect if I 
could, while Ada rested her clasped hands upon his shoulder, and 
while he looked at her tender blue eyes, and while they looked at 
him! 

" You see, my precious girl," said Richard, passing her golden 
curls through and through his hand, " I was a little hasty, per- 
haps ; or I misunderstood my own inclinations, perhaps. They 
don't seem to lie in that direction. I couldn't tell, till I tried. 
Now the question is, whether it's worth while to undo all that has 
been done. It seems like making a great disturbance about noth- 
ing particular." 

"My dear Richard," said I, "how can you say about nothing 
particular 1 " 

" I don't mean absolutely that," he returned. " I mean that it 
may be nothing particular, because I may never want it." 

Both Ada and I urged, in reply, not only that it was decidedly 
worth while to undo what had been done, but that it must be 
undone. I then asked Richard whether he had thought of any 
more congenial pursuit ? 

"There, my dear Mrs. Shipton," said Richard, "you touch me 
home. Yes, I have. I have been thinking that the law is the boy 
for me." 

" The law ! " repeated Ada, as if she were afraid of the name. 

" If I went into Kenge's office," said Richard, " and if I were 
placed under articles to Kenge, I should have my eye on the — 
hum ! — the forbidden ground — and should be able to study it, 
and master it, and to satisfy myself that it was not neglected, and 
was being properly conducted. I should be able to look after 
Ada's interests, and my own interests (the same thing !) ; and I 
should peg away at Blackstone and all those fellows with the most 
tremendous ardour." 

I was not by any means so sure of that ; and I saw how his 
hankering after the vague things yet to come of those long-deferred 



1 



BLEAK HOUSE. 217 

hopes, cast a shade on Ada's face. But I thought it best to 
encourage him in any project of continuous exertion, and only 
advised him to be quite sure that his mind was made up now. 

"My dear Minerva," said Richard, "I am as steady as you are. 
I made a mistake ; we are all liable to mistakes ; I won't do so 
any more, and I'll become such a lawyer as is not often seen. That 
is, you know," said Richard, relapsing into doubt, "if it really is 
worth while, after all, to make such a disturbance about nothing 
particular ! " 

This led to our saying again, with a great deal of gravity, all 
that we had said already, and to our coming to much the same 
conclusion afterwards. But, we so strongly advised Richard to be 
frank and open with Mr. Jamdyce, without a moment's delay ; and 
his disposition was naturally so opposed to concealment; that he 
sought him out at once (taking us with him), and made a full 
avowal. " Rick," said my Guardian, after hearing him attentively, 
" we can retreat with honour, and we will. But we must be care- 
ful — for our cousin's sake. Rick, for our cousin's sake — that we 
make no more such mistakes. Therefore, in the matter of the law, 
we will have a good trial before we decide. We will look before 
we leap, and take plenty of time about it." 

Richard's energy was of such an impatient and fitful kind, that 
he would have liked nothing better than to have gone to Mr. 
Kenge's office in that hour, and to have entered into articles with 
him on the spot. Submitting, however, with a good grace to the 
caution that we had shown to be so necessary, he contented him- 
self with sitting down among us in his lightest spirits, and talking 
as if his one unvarying purpose in life from childhood had been 
that one which now held possession of him. My Guardian was 
very kind and cordial with him, but rather grave ; enough so to 
cause Ada, when he had departed and we were going up-stairs to 
bed, to say : 

" Cousin John, I hope you don't think the worse of Richard 1 " 

"No, my love," said he. 

" Because it was very natural that Richard should be mistaken 
in such a difficult case. It is not uncommon." 

"No, no, my love," said he. "Don't look unhappy." 

" 0, I am not unhappy, cousin John !" said Ada, smiling cheer- 
fully, with her hand upon his shoulder, where she had put it in 
bidding him good night. " But I should be a little so, if you 
thought at all the worse of Richard." 

" My dear," said Mr. Jarndyce, " I should think the worse of 
him, only if you were ever in the least unhappy through his means. 
I should be more disposed to quarrel with myself, even then, than 



218 BLEAK HOUSE. 

with poor Rick, for I brought you together. But, tut, all this is 
nothing ! He has time before him, and the race to run. / think 
the worse of him ? Not I, my loving cousin ! And not you, I 
swear ! " 

"No, indeed, cousin John," said Ada, "I am sure I could not 
— I am sure I would not — think any ill of Richard, if the whole 
world did. I could, and I would, think better of him then, than 
at any other time ! " 

So quietly and honestly she said it, with her hands upon his 
shoulders — both hands now — and looking up into his face, like 
the picture of Truth ! 

"I think," said my Guardian, thoughtfully regarding her, "I 
think it must be somewhere -wiitteu that the virtues of the mothers 
shall, occasionally, be visited on the children, as well as the sins of 
the fathers. G-ood night, my rosebud. Good night, little woman. 
Pleasant slumbers ! Happy dreams ! " 

This was the first time I ever saw him follow Ada with his eyes, 
with something of a shadow on their benevolent expression. I 
well remembered the look with which he had contemplated her 
and Richard, when she was singing in the fire-light ; it was but a 
veiy little while since he had watched them passing down the room 
in which the sun was shining, and away into the shade ; but his 
glance was changed, and even the silent look of confidence in me 
which now followed it once more, was not quite so hopeful and 
untroubled as it had originally been. 

Ada praised Richard more to me, that night, than ever she had 
praised him yet. She went to sleep, with a little bracelet he had 
given her clasped upon her arm. I fancied she was dreaming of 
him when I kissed her cheek after she had slept an hour, and saw 
how tranquil and happy she looked. 

For I was so little inclined to sleep, myself, that night, that I 
sat up working. It would not be worth mentioning for its own 
sake, but I was wakeful and rather low-spirited. I don't know 
why. At least I don't think I know why. At least, perhaps I 
do, but I don't think it matters. 

At any rate, I made up my mind to be so dreadfully industrious 
that I would leave myself not a moment's leisure to be low-spirited. 
For I naturally said, "Esther! You to below-spirited. You/" 
And it really was time to say so, for I — yes, I really did see 
myself in the glass, almost crying. " As if you had anything to 
make you unhappy, instead of everything to make you happy, you 
ungrateful heart ! " said I. 

If I could have made myself go to sleep, I would have done it 
directly; but, not being able to do that, I took out of my basket 



BLEAK HOUSE. 219 

some ornamental work for our house (I mean Bleak House) that 
I was busy with at that time, and sat down to it with great deter- 
mination. It was necessary to count all tlie stitches in that work, 
and I resolved to go on with it until I couldn't keep my eyes open, 
and then to go to bed. 

I soon found myself very busy. But I had left some silk down- 
stairs in a work-table drawer in the temporary Growlery ; and 
coming to a stop for want of it, I took my candle and went softly 
down to get it. To my great surprise, on going in, I found my 
Guardian still there, and sitting looking at the ashes. He was lost 
in thought, his book lay unheeded by his side, his silvered iron-grey 
hair was scattered confusedly upon his forehead as though his hand 
had been wandering among it while his thoughts were elsewhere, 
and his face looked worn. Almost frightened by coming upon him 
so unexpectedly, I stood still for a moment ; and should have 
retired without speaking, had he not, in again passing his hand 
abstractedly through his hair, seen me and started. 

" Esther ! " 

I told him what I had come for. 

"At work so late, my dear?" 

"I am working late to-night," said I, "because I couldn't sleep, 
and wished to tire myself. But, dear Guardian, you are late 
too, and look weary. You have no trouble, I hope, to keep you 
waking 1 " 

" None, little woman, that i/ou would readily understand," said 
he. 

He spoke in a regretful tone so new to me, that I inwardly 
repeated, as if that would help me to his meaning, " That / could 
readily understand ! " 

"Remain a moment, Esther," said he. "You were in my 
thoughts." 

"I hope I was not the trouble. Guardian?" 

He slightly waved his hand, and fell into his usual manner. 
The change was so remarkable, and he appeared to make it by 
dint of so much self-command, that I found myself again inwardly 
repeating, " None that / could understand ! " 

" Little woman," said my Guardian, "I was thinking — that is, 
I have been thinking since I have been sitting here — that you 
ought to know, of yoiu' own history, all I know. It is very little. 
Next to nothing." 

"Dear Guardian," I replied, "when you spoke to me before on 
that subject " 

"But since then," he gravely interposed, anticipating what I 
meant to say, " I have reflected that your having anything to ask 



220 BLEAK HOUSE. 

me, and my having anything to tell you, are different considera- 
tions, Esther. It is perhaps my duty to impart to you the little 
I know." 

"If you think so. Guardian, it is riglit." 

"I think so," he returned, very gently, and kindly, and very 
distinctly. '* My dear, I think so, now. If any real disadvantage 
can attach to your position, in the mind of any man or woman 
worth a thought, it is right that you, at least, of all the world 
should not magnify it to yourself, by having vague impressions of 
its nature." 

I sat down ; and said, after a little effort to be as calm as I 
ought to be, " One of my earliest remembrances. Guardian, is of 
these words : ' Your mother, Esther, is your disgrace, and you 
were hers. The time will come, and soon enough, when you will 
understand this better, and will feel it too, as no one save a woman 
can.' " I had covered my face with my hands, in repeating the 
words ; but I took them away now with a better kind of shame, 
I hope, and told him, that to him I owed the blessing that I had 
from my childhood to that hour never, never, never felt it. He 
put up his hand as if to stop me. I well knew that he was never 
to be thanked, and said no more. 

" Nine years, my dear," he said, after thinking for a little while, 
"have passed since I received a letter from a lady living in seclu- 
sion, written with a stern passion and power that rendered it unlike 
all other letters I have ever read. It was written to me (as it told 
me in so many words), perhaps, because it Avas the writer's idio- 
syncrasy to put that trust in me ; perhaps, because it was mine 
to justify it. It told me of a child, an orphan girl then twelve 
years old, in some such cruel words as those which live in your 
remembrance. It told me that the Avriter had bred her in secrecy 
from her birth, had blotted out all trace of her existence, and that 
if the writer were to die before the child became a woman, she 
would be left entirely friendless, nameless, and unknown. It asked^ 
me, to consider if I would, in that case, finish what the writer hac 
begun 1 " 

I listened in silence, and looked attentively at him. 

"Your early recollection, my dear, will supply the gloomj 
medium through which all this was seen and expressed by the 
writer, and the distorted religion which clouded her mind wit! 
impressions of the need there was for the child to expiate an offence 
of which she was quite innocent. I felt concerned for the little 
creature, in her darkened life ; and replied to the letter." 

I took his hand and kissed it. 

" It laid the injunction on me that I should never propose td 



BLEAK HOUSE. 221 

see the writer, who had long been estranged from all intercourse 
with the world, but who would see a confidential agent if I would 
appoint one. I accredited Mr. Kenge. The lady said, of her own 
accord, and not of his seeking, that her name was an assumed one. 
That she was, if there were any ties of blood in such a case, the 
child's aunt. That more than this she would never (and he was 
well persuaded of the steadfastness of her resolution), for any human 
consideration, disclose. My dear, I have told you all." 

I held his hand for a little while in mine. 

" I saw my ward oftener than she saw me," he added, cheerily 
making light of it, " and I always knew she was beloved, useful, 
and happy. She repays me twenty-thousand fold, and twenty more 
to that, every hour in every day ! " 

"And oftener still," said I, "she blesses the Guardian who is 
a Father to her ! " 

At the word Father, I saw his former trouble come into his face. 
He subdued it as before, and it was gone in an instant ; but, it 
had been there, and it had come so swiftly upon my words that I 
felt as if they had given him a shock. I again inwardly repeated, 
wondering, " That / could readily understand. None that / could, 
readily understand ! " No, it was true. I did not understand it. 
Not for many and many a day. 

" Take a fatherly good night, my dear," said he, kissing me on 
the forehead, "and so to rest. These are late hours for working 
and thinking. You do that for all of us, all day long, little house- 
keeper ! " 

I neither worked nor thought, any more, that night. I ojDened 
my grateful heart to Heaven in thankfulness for its providence to 
me and its care of me, and fell asleep. 

We had a visitor next day. Mr. Allan Woodcourt came. He 
came to take leave of us ; he had settled to do so befoi-ehand. He 
was going to China, and to India, as a surgeon on board ship. 
He was to be away a long, long time. 

I believe — at least I know — that he was not rich. All his 
widowed mother could spare had been spent in qualifying him for 
his profession. It was not lucrative to a young practitioner, with 
very little influence in London; and although he was, night and 
day, at the service of numbers of poor people, and did wonders of 
gentleness and skill for them, he gained very little by it in money. 
He was seven years older than I. Not that I need mention it, for 
it hardly seems to belong to anything. 

I think — I mean, he told us — that he had been in practice 
three or four years, and that if he could have hoped to contend 
through three or four more, he would not have made the voyage 



222 BLEAK HOUSE. 

on which he was bound. But he had no fortune or private 
means, and so he was going away. He had been to see us several 
times altogether. We thought it a pity he should go away. 
Because he was distinguished in his art among those who knew it 
best, and some of the greatest men belonging to it had a high 
opinion of him. 

When he came to bid us good bye, he brought his mother with 
him for the first time. She was a pretty old lady, with bright 
black eyes, but she seemed proud. She came from Wales ; and 
had had, a long time ago, an eminent person for an ancestor, of the 
name of Morgan ap-Kerrig — of some place that sounded like 
Gimlet — who was the most illustrious person that ever was known, 
and all of whose relations were a sort of Royal Family. He 
appeared to have passed his life in always getting up into mour 
tains and fighting somebody ; and a Bard whose name sound® 
like Cnimlinwallinwer had sung his praises, in a piece which w* 
called, as nearly as I could catch it, Mewlinnwillinwodd. ' 

Mrs. Woodcourt, after expatiating to us on the fame of her ' 
kinsman, said that, no doubt, wherever her son Allan we he 
would remember his pedigree, and would on no account form an 
alliance below it. She told him that there were many li adsome 
English ladies in India who went out on speculation, and that there 
were some to be picked up with property ; but, that neither charms 
nor wealth would suffice for the descendant from such a line, with- 
out birth : which must ever be the fiivst consideration. ' She talked 
so much about birth, that, for a moment, I half fancied, and with 
pain — but, what an idle fancy to suppose that she jould think or 
care what mine was ! . 

Mr. Woodcourt seemed a little distressed by her prolixity, but 
he was too considerate to let her see it, and contrived delicately to 
bring the conversation round to making his acknowledgments to 
my Guardian for his hospitality, and for the very happy hours — he 
called them the very happy hours — he had passed with us. The 
recollection of them, he said, would go with him wherever he went, 
and would be always treasured. And so we gave him our hands, 
one after another — at least, they did — and I did ; and so he put 
his lips to Ada's hand — and to mine ; and so he went away upoi 
his long, long voyage ! 

I was veiy busy indeed, all day, and wrote directions home to 
the servants, and wrote notes for my Guardian, and dusted his 
books and papers, and jingled my housekeeping keys a good deal, 
one way and another. I was still busy between the lights, singing 
and working by the window, when w ,io should come in but Caddy, 
whom I had no expectation of seeing ! 



II 



BLEAK HOUSE. 223 

"Why, Caddy, my dear," said I, " what beautiful flowers ! " 

She had such an exquisite little nosegay in her hand. 

" Indeed, I think so, Esther," replied Caddy. " They are the 
loveliest I ever saw." 

" Prince, my dear? " said I, in a whisper. 

"No," answered Caddy, shaking her head, and holding them to 
me to smell. " Not Prince ! " 

"Well, to be sure, Caddy!" said I. "You must have two 
lovers ! " 

" What 1 Do they look like that sort of thing ? " said Caddy. 

"Do they look like that sort of thing!" I repeated, pinching 
her cheek. 

Caddy only laughed in retiu-n ; and telling me that she had 
me for half-an-hour, at the expiration of which time Prince 

uld be waiting for her at the corner, sat chatting with me and 

1 in the window : every now and then, handing me the flowers 
, or trying how they looked against my hair. At last, when 
•"as going, she took me into my room, and put them in my 
dres 

" For me ? " said I, surprised. 

"Foi you," said Caddy, with a kiss. " They were left behind 
by Somebody." 

" Left behind ? " 

" At poor Miss Flite's," said Caddy. " Somebody who has been 
very good U her, was hurrying away an hour ago, to join a ship, 
land left these flowers behind. No, no ! Don't take them out. 
Let the prett/ little things lie here ! " said Caddy, adjusting them 
with a careful 1 and, " because I was present myself, and I shouldn't 
iwonder if Somebody left them on purpose ! " 

" Do they look like that sort of thing ? " said Ada, coming laugh- 
ingly behind me, and clasping me merrily round the waist. " 0, 
syes, indeed they do, Dame Durden ! They look very, very like 
.that sort of thing. 0, very like it indeed, my dear I " 



CHAPTER XVIIL 

LADY DEBLOCK. 

It was not so easy as it had appeared at first, to arrange for 
iRichard's making a trial of Mr. Kenge's office. Richard himself 
was the chief impediment. As soon as he had it in his power to 
leave Mr. Badger at any moment, he began to doubt whether he 



^T^ 



^ 




caddy's flowers. 



BLEAK HOUSE. 225 

wanted to leave hira at all. He didn't know, he said, really. It 
wasn't a bad profession ; he couldn't assert that he disliked it ; per- 
haps he liked it as well as he liked any other — suppose he gave 
it one more chance ! Upon that, he shut himself up, for a few 
weeks, with some books and some bones, and seemed to acquire a 
considerable fund of information with great rapidity. His fervour, 
after lasting about a month, began to cool ; and when it was quite 
cooled, began to grow warm again. His vacillations between law 
and medicine lasted so long, that Midsummer arrived before he 
finally separated from Mr. Badger, and entered on an experimental 
course of Messrs. Kenge and Carboy. For all his waywardness, 
he took great credit to himself as being determined to be in earnest 
" this time." And he was so good-natured throughout, and in such 
high spirits, and so fond of Ada, that it was very difficult indeed to 
be otherwise than pleased with him. 

"As to Mr. Jarndyce," who, I may mention, found the wind 
much given, during this period, to sticking in the east; "As to Mr. 
Jarndyce," Richard would say to me, "he is the finest fellow in 
the world, Esther ! I must be particularly careful, if it were only 
for his satisfaction, to take myself well to task, and have a regular 
wind-up of this business now." 

The idea of his taking himself well to task, with that laughing 
face and heedless manner, and with a fancy that everything could 
catch and nothing could hold, was ludicrously anomalous. How- 
ever, he told us between-whiles, that he was doing it to such an 
extent, that he wondered his hair didn't turn gi'ey. His regular 
wind-up of the business was (as I have said), that he went to Mr. 
Kenge's about Midsummer, to try how he liked it. 

All this time he was, in money affairs, what I have described 
him in a former illustration : generous, profuse, wildly careless, 
but fully persuaded that he was rather calculating and prudent. 
I happened to say to Ada, in his presence, half- jestingly, half- 
seriously, about the time of his going to Mr. Kenge's, that he 
needed to have Fortunatus's purse, he made so light of money, 
which he answered in this way : 

" My jewel of a dear cousin, you hear this old woman ! Why 
does she say that 1 Because I gave eight pounds odd (or what- 
ever it was) for a certain neat waistcoat and buttons a few days 
ago. Now, if I had stayed at Badger's I should have been 
obliged to spend twelve pounds at a blow, for some heart-break- 
ing lecture-fees. So I make four pounds — in a lump — by the 
transaction ! " 

It was a question much discussed between him and my Guardian 
what arrangements should be made for his living in London, while 



226 BLEAK HOUSE. 

he experimented on the law ; for, we had long since gone back to 
Bleak House, and it was too far off to admit of his coming there 
oftener than once a week. My Guardian told me that if Richard 
were to settle down at Mr. Kenge's he would take some apartments 
or chambers, where we, too, could occasionally stay for a few days 
at a time; "but, little woman," he added, mbbing his head very 
significantly, " he hasn't settled down there yet ! " The discus- 
sions ended in our hiring for him, by the month, a neat little fur- 
nished lodging in a quiet old house near Queen Square. He 
immediately began to spend all the money he had, in buying the 
oddest little ornaments and luxuries for this lodging ; and as often 
as Ada and I dissuaded him from making any purchase that he 
had in contemplation which was particularly unnecessary and 
expensive, he took credit for what it would have cost, and made 
out that to spend anything less on something else was to save 
the difference. 

While these affairs were in abeyance, our visit to Mr. Boythorn's 
was postponed. At length, Richard having taken possession of his 
lodging, there was nothing to prevent our departure. He could 
have gone with us at that time of the year, very well ; but he wasi 
in the full novelty of his new position, and was making most ener-| 
getic attempts to unravel the mysteries of the fatal suit. Conse 
quently, we went without him ; and my darling was delighted to 
praise him for being so busy. 

We made a pleasant journey down into Lincolnshire by the 
coach, and had an entertaining companion in Mr. Skimpole. His 
furniture had been all cleared off, it appeared, by the person who 
took possession of it on his blue-eyed daughter's birthday ; but, he 
seemed quite relieved to think that it was gone. Chairs and tables, 
he said, were wearisome objects ; they were monotonous ideas, they'' 
had no variety of expression, they looked you out of countenance, 
and you looked them out of countenance. How pleasant, then, to 
be bound to no particular chairs and tables, but to sport like a 
butterfly among all the furniture on hire, and to flit from rosewood 
to mahogany, and from mahogany to walnut, and from this shape 
to that, as the humour took one ! 

"The oddity of the thing is," said Mr. Skimpole, with a 
quickened sense of the ludicrous, " that my chairs and tables were 
not paid for, and yet my landlord walks off with them as com- 
posedly as possible. Now, that seems droll ! There is something 
grotesque in it. The chair and table merchant never engaged to 
pay my landlord my rent. Why should my landlord quarrel with 
him ? If I have a pimple on my nose which is disagreeable to my 
landlord's peculiar ideas of beauty, my landlord has no business to 



I 



BLEAK HOUSE. 227 

scratch my chair and table merchant's nose, which has no pimple 
on it. His reasoning seems defective ! " 

" Well," said my Guardian, good-humouredly, " it's pretty clear 
that whoever became security for those chairs and tables will have 
to pay for them." 

" Exactly ! " returned Mr. Skimpole. " That's the crowning 
point of unreason in the business ! I said to my landlord, ' My 
good man, you are not aware that my excellent friend Jarndyce 
will have to pay for those things that you are sweeping off in that 
indelicate manner. Have you no consideration for his property 1 ' 
He hadn't the least." 

" And refused all proposals ? " said my Guardian. 

"Refused all proposals," returned Mr. Skimpole. "I made him 
business proposals. I had him into my room. I said, ' You are a 
man of business, I believe?' He replied, 'I am.' 'Very well,' 
said I, ' now let us be business-like. Here is an inkstand, here are 
pens and paper, here are wafers. What do you want? I have 
occupied your house for a considerable period, I believe to our 
mutual satisfaction until this unpleasant misunderstanding arose ; 
let us be at once friendly and business-like. What do you Avant ? ' 
In reply to this, he made use of the figurative expression — which 
has something Eastern about it — that he had never seen the 
colour of my money. ' My amiable friend,' said I, ' I never have 
any money. I never know anything about money.' 'Well, sir,' 
said he, ' what do you offer, if I give you time ? ' ' My good fellow,' 
said I, ' I have no idea of time ; but, you say you are a man of 
business, and whatever you can suggest to be done in a business- 
like way with pen, and ink, and paper — and wafers — I am ready 
to do. Don't pay yourself at another man's expense (which is , 
foolish), but be business-like ! ' However, he wouldn't be, and 
there was an end of it." 

If these were some of the inconveniences of Mr. Skimpole's 
childhood, it assuredly possessed its advantages too. On the 
journey he had a very good appetite for such refreshment as came 
in our way (including a basket of choice hot-house peaches), but 
never thought of paying for anything. So when the coachman 
came round for his fee, he pleasantly asked him what he con- 
sidered a very good fee indeed, now — • a liberal one — and, on 
his replying, half-a-crown for a single passenger, said it was little 
enough too, all things considered ; and left Mr, Jarndyce to give 
it him. 

It was delightful weather. The green corn waved so beautifully, 
the larks sang so joyfully, the hedges were so full of wild flowers, 
the trees were so thickly out in leaf, the bean-fields, with a light 



228 BLEAK HOUSE. 

wind blowing over them, filled the air with such a delicious fra- 
grance ! Late in the afternoon we came to the market-town where 
we were to alight from the coach — a dull little town, with a 
church-spire, and a market-place, and a market-cross, and one 
intensely sunny street, and a pond with an old horse cooling his 
legs in it, and a very few men sleepily lying and standing about in 
narrow little bits of shade. After the rustling of the leaves and 
the waving of the corn all along the road, it looked as still, as hot, 
as motionless a little town as England could produce. 

At the inn, we found Mr. Boythorn on horseback, waiting with ■ 
an open carriage, to take us to his liouse, which was a few miles I 
off. He was overjoyed to see us, and dismounted with great 
alacrity. 

" By Heaven ! " said he, after giving us a courteous greeting, ± 
"this is a most infamous coach. It is the most flagrant example y 
of an abominable public vehicle that ever encumbered the face of 
the earth. It is twenty-five minutes after its time, this afternoon. 
The coachman ought to be put to tleath ! " 

"Is he after his time ? " said Mr. Skimpole, to whom he hap- 
pened to address himself. " You know my infirmity." 

" Twenty-five minutes ! Twenty-six minutes ! " replied Mr. 
Boythorn, referring to his watch. " With two ladies in the coach, 
this scoundrel has deliberately delayed his arrival six-and-twenty 
minutes. Deliberately ! It is impossible that it can be accidental ! 
But his father — and his uncle — were the most profligate coach- 
men that ever sat upon a box." 

While he said this in tones of the greatest indignation, he handed 
us into the little phaeton with the utmost gentleness, and was all 
smiles and pleasure. 

" I am sorry, ladies," he said, standing bare-headed at the car- ■ 
riage-door, when all was ready, " that I am obliged to conduct you 
nearly two miles out of the way. But, our direct road lies through 
Sir Leicester Dedlock's park ; and, in that fellow's property, I have 
sworn never to set foot of mine, or horse's foot of mine, pending 
the present relations between us, while I breathe the breath of 
life ! " And here, catching my Guardian's eye, he broke into one of 
his tremendous laughs, which seemed to shake even the motionless 
little market-town. 

" Are the Dedlocks down here, Lawrence ? " said my Guardian as 
we drove along, and Mr. Boythorn trotted on the green turf by the 
roadside. 

"Sir Arrogant Numskull is here," replied Mr. Boythorn. "Ha 
ha ha ! Sir Arrogant is here, and, I am glad to say, has been laid 
by the heels here. My Lady," in naming whom he always made a 



BLEAK HOUSE. 229 

courtly gesture as if jDarticularly to exclude her from any part in 
the quarrel, " is expected, I believe, daily. I am not in the least 
surprised that she postpones her appearance as long as possible. 
Whatever can have induced that transcendent woman to marry that 
effigy and figure-head of a baronet, is one of the most impenetrable 
mysteries that ever baffled human inquiry. Ha ha ha ha ! " 

" I suppose," said my Guardian laughing, " we may set foot in 
the park while we are here ? Tlie prohibition does not extend to 
us, does it ? " 

"I can lay no prohibition on my guests," he said, bending his 
head to Ada and me, with the smiling politeness which sat so 
gi-acefuUy upon him, " except in the matter of their departure. I 
am only sorry that I cannot have the happiness of being their escort 
about Chesney Wold, which is a very fine place ! But, by the 
light of this summer day, Jarndyce, if you call upon the owner, 
Mobile you stay with me, you are likely to have but a cool reception. 
He carries himself like an eight-day clock at all times ; like one 
of a race of eight-day clocks in gorgeous cases that never go and 
never went — Ha ha ha ! — but he will have some extra stiffness, 
I can promise you, for the friends of his friend and neighbour, 
Boy thorn ! " 

"I shall not put him to the proof," said my Guardian. " He is 
as indifferent to the honour of knowing me, I dare say, as I am to 
the honour of knowing him. The air of the gi'ounds, and perhaps 
such a view of the house as any other sight-seer might get, are 
quite enough for me." 

" AVell ! " said Mr. Boythorn, " I am glad of it on the whole. 
It's in better keeping. I am looked upon, about here, as a second 
Ajax defying the lightning. Ha ha ha ha ! When I go into our 
little church on a Sunday, a considerable part of the inconsiderable 
congregation expect to see me drop, scorched and withered, on the 
pavement untler the Dedlock displeasure. Ha ha ha ha ! I have 
no doubt he is surprised that I don't. For he is, by Heaven ! the 
most self-satisfied, and the shallowest, and the most coxcombical 
and utterly brainless ass ! " 

Our coming to the ridge of a hill we had been ascending, enabled 
our friend to i)()iiit out Chesney Wold itself to us, and diverted his 
attention from its master. 

It was a picturesque old house, in a fine park richly wooded. 
Among the trees, and not far from the residence, he pointed out 
the spire of the little church of which he had spoken. 0, the 
solemn woods over which the light and shadow travelled swiftly, as 
if Heavenly Avings were sweeping on benignant errands through 
the summer air ; the smooth green slopes, the glittering water, the 



230 BLEAK HOUSE. 

garden where the flowers wore so symmetrically arranged in clusters 
of the richest colours, how beautiful they looked ! The house, 
with gable, and chimney, and tower, and turret, and dark doorway, 
and broad terrace-walk, twining among the balustrades of which, 
and lying heaped upon the vases, there was one great flush of roses, 
seemed scarcely real in its light solidity, and in the serene and 
peaceful hush that rested all around it. To Ada and to me, 
that, above all, appeared the pervading influence. On everything, 
house, garden, terrace, green slopes, water, old oaks, fern, moss, 
woods again, and far away across the openings in the prospect, to 
the distance lying wide before us with a purple bloom upon it, thereB 
seemed to be such undisturbed repose. ■ 

When we came into the little village, and passed a small inn with 
the sign of the Dedlock Arms swinging over the road in front, Mr. 
Boythorn interchanged greetings with a young gentleman sitting on 
a bench outside the inn-door, who had some fishing-tackle lying 
beside him. 

" That's the housekeeper's grandson, Mr. Rouncewell by name," 
said he ; " and he is in love with a pretty girl up at the House. 
Lady Dedlock has taken a fancy to the pretty girl, and is going to 
keep her about her ovm fair person — an honour which my young 
friend himself does not at all appreciate. However, he can't marry 
just yet, even if his Rosebud were Avilling ; so he is fain to make the 
best of it. In the meanwhile, he comes here pretty often, for a 
day or two at a time, to — fish. Ha ha ha ha ! " 

" Are he and the pretty girl engaged, Mr. Boythorn ? " asked 
Ada. 

" Why, my dear Miss Clare," he returned, " I think they may 
perhaps understand each other ; but you will see them soon, I dare 
say, and I must learn from you on such a point — not you from 
me." 

Ada blushed ; and Mr. Boythorn, trotting forward on his 
comely grey horse, dismounted at his own door, and stood ready, 
with extended arm and uncovered head, to welcome us whe: 
we arrived. 

He lived in a pretty house, formerly the Parsonage-house, wit' 
a lawn in front, a bright flower-garden at the side, and a well- 
stocked orchard and kitchen-garden in the rear, enclosed with 
venerable wall that had of itself a ripened ruddy look. But, in-| 
deed, everything about the place wore an aspect of maturity andf 
abundance. The old lime-tree walk was like green cloisters, thel 
very shadows of the cherry-trees and apple-trees were heavy with' 
fruit, the gooseberry-bushes were so laden that their branches 
arched and rested on the earth, the strawberries and raspberries 



BLEAK HOUSE. 231 

grew in like profusion, and the peaches basked by the hundred on 
the wall. Tumbled about among the spread nets and the glass 
frames sparkling and winking in the sun, there were such heaps of 
drooping pods, and marrows, and cucumbers, that every foot of 
ground appeared a vegetable treasury, while the smell of sweet 
herbs and all kinds of wholesome growth (to say nothing of the 
neighbouring meadows where the hay was carrying) made the 
whole air a great nosegay. Such stillness and composure reigned 
within the orderly precincts of the old red wall, that even the 
feathers hung in garlands to scare the birds hardly stirred ; and 
the wall had such a ripening influence that where, here and there 
high up, a disused nail and scrap of list still clung to it, it was easier 
to fancy that they had mellowed with the changing seasons, than 
that they had rusted and decayed according to the common fate. 

The house, though a little disorderly in comparison with the 
garden, was a real old house, with settles in the chimney of the 
brick-floored kitchen, and great beams across the ceilings. On one 
side of it was the terrible piece of gi'ound in dispute, where Mr. 
Boythorn maintained a sentry in a smock-frock, day and night, 
whose duty was supposed to be, in case of aggression, immediately 
to ring a large bell hung up there for the purpose, to unchain a 
great bull-dog established in a kennel as his ally, and generally to 
deal destruction on the enemy. Not content with these precau- 
tions, Mr. Boythorn had himself composed and posted there, on 
painted boards to which his name was attached in large letters, 
the following solemn warnings : " Beware of the Bull-dog. He is 
most ferocious. Lawrence Boythorn." "The blunderbuss is loaded 
with slugs. Lawrence Boythorn." "Man-traps and spring-guns 
are set here at all times of the day and night. Lawrence Boy- 
thorn." " Take notice. That any person or persons audaciously 
presuming to trespass on this property, will be punished with the 
utmost severity of private chastisement, and prosecuted with the 
utmost rigour of the law. Lawrence Boythorn." These he showed 
us, from the drawing-room window, while his bird was hopping about 
his head ; and he laughed, " Ha ha ha ha ! Ha ha ha ha ! " to that 
extent as he pointed them out, that I really thought he would have 
hurt himself. 

" But this is taking a good deal of trouble," said Mr. Skimpole 
in his light way, " when you are not in earnest after all ? " 

" Not in earnest ! " returned Mr. Boythorn, with unspeakable 
warmth. " Not in earnest ! If I could have hoped to train him, 
I would have bought a Lion instead of that dog, and would have 
turned him loose upon the first intolerable robber who should dare 
to make an encroachment on my rights. Let Sir Leicester Dedlock 



232 BLEAK HOUSE. 

consent to come out and decide this question by single combat, and 
I will meet him with any weapon known to mankind in any age or 
country. I am that much in earnest. Not more ! " 

We arrived at his house on a Saturday. On the Sunday morn- 
ing we all set forth to walk to the little church in the park. Enter- 
ing the park, almost immediately by the disputed ground, we 
pursued a pleasant footpath winding among the verdant turf and 
the beautiful trees, until it brought us to the church-porch. 

The congregation Avas extremely small and quite a rustic one, 
with the exception of a large muster of servants from the House, 
some of whom were already in their seats, Avhile others were yet 
dropping in. There were some stately footmen ; and there was a 
perfect picture of an old coachman, who looked as if he were the 
official representative of all the pomps and vanities that had ever 
been put into his coach. There was a veiy pretty show of young 
women ; and above them, the handsome old face and fine respon- 
sible i^ortly figure of the housekeeper, towered pre-eminent. The 
pretty girl, of whom Mr. Boythorn had told us, was close by her. 
She was so very pretty, that I might have knowai her by her beauty, 
even if I had not seen how blushingly conscious she was of the eyes 
of the young fisherman, whom I discovered not far ofi". One face, 
and not an agreeable one, though it was handsome, seemed mali- 
ciously watchful of this i^retty girl, and indeed of every one and 
everything there. It was a Frenchwoman's. 

As the bell was yet ringing and the great people were not yet 
come, I had leisure to glance over the church, which smelt as 
earthy as a grave, and to think what a shady, ancient, solemn little 
church it was. The windows, heavily shaded by trees, admitted a 
subdued light that made the faces around me jjale, and darkened 
the old brasses in the pavement, and the time and damp-worn 
monuments, and rendered the sunshine in the little porch, where a 
monotonous ringer was working at the bell, inestimably bright. 
But a stir in that direction, a gathering of reverential awe in the 
rustic faces, and a, blandly-ferocious assumption on the part of Mr. 
Boythorn of being resolutely unconscioias of somebody's existence, 
forewarned me that the great people were come, and that the service 
was going to begin. 

" ' Enter not into judgment with thy servant, O Lord, for in thy 
sight '" 

Shall I ever forget the rapid beating at my heart, occasioned by 
the look I met, as I stood up ! Sliall I ever forget the manner in 
which those handsome proud eyes seemed to spring out of their 
languor, and to hold mine ! It was only a moment before I cast 
mine down — released again, if I may say so — on my book ; 




r v/;'//^ 



I 



284 BLEAK HOUSE. 

but, I knew the beautiful face quite well, in that short space of 
time. 

And, very strangely, there was something quickened within me, 
associated with the lonely days at my godmother's ; yes, away even 
to the days when I had stood on tiptoe to dress myself at my little 
glass, after dressing my doll. And this, although I had never seen 
this lady's face before in all my life — I was quite sure of it — 
absolutely certain. 

It was easy to know that the ceremonious, gouty, grey-haired 
gentleman, the only other occupant of the great pew, was Sir 
Leicester Dedlock ; and that the lady was Lady Dedlock. But ■ 
why her face should be, in a confused way, like a broken glass to I 
me, in which I saw scraps of old remembrances ; and why I should 
be so fluttered and troubled (for I was still), by having casually 
met her eyes ; I could not think. 

I felt it to be an unmeaning weakness in me, and I tried to over- 
come it by attending to the words I heard. Then, very strangely, 
I seemed to hear them, not in the reader's voice, but in the well- 
remembered voice of my godmother. This made me think, did 
Lady Dedlock's face accidentally resemble my godmother's 1 It 
might be that it did, a little ; but, the expression was so different, 
and the stern decision which had worn into my godmother's face, 
like weather into rocks, was so completely wanting in the face be- 
fore me, that it could not be that resemblance which had strack 
me. Neither did I know the loftiness and haughtiness of Lady 
Dedlock's face, at all, in any one. And yet / — /, little Esther 
Summersoii, the chUd who lived a life apart, and on whose birth-, 
day there was no rejoicing — seemed to arise before my own eyes, 
evoked out of the past by some power in this fashionable lady, 
whom I not only entertained no fancy that I had ever seen, but 
whom I perfectly well knew I had never seen until that hour. i 

It made me tremble so, to be thrown into this unaccountable! 
agitation, that I was conscious of being distressed even by the 
observation of the French maid, though I knew she had been look- 
ing watchfully here, and there, and everywhere, from the moment 
of her coming into the church. By degrees, though very slowly, I 
at last overcame my strange emotion. After a long time, I looked 
towards Lady Dedlock again. It was while they were preparing to 
sing, before the sermon. She took no heed of me, and the beating 
at my heart was gone. Neither did it revive for more than a few 
moments, when she once or twice afterwards glanced at Ada or at 
me through her glass. 

The service being concluded. Sir Leicester gave his arm with 
much taste and gallantry to Lady Dedlock — though he was obliged 



BLEAK HOUSE. 235 

to walk by the help of a thick stick — and escorted her out of 
church to the pony carriage in which they had come. The servants 
then dispersed, and so did the congregation : whom Sir Leicester 
had contemplated all along (Mr. Skimpole said to Mr. Boythorn's 
infinite delight), as if he were a considerable landed proprietor in 
Heaven. 

" He believes he is ! " said Mr. Boy thorn. " He firmly believes 
it. So did his father, and his grandfather, and his great-grand- 
father ! " 

"Do you know," pursued Mr. Skimpole, very unexpectedly to 
Mr. Boy thorn, "it's agreeable to me to see a man of that sort." 

" Is it ! " said Mr. Boythorn. 

" Say that he wants to patronise me," pursued Mr. Skimpole. 
" Very well ! I don't object." 

"/ do," said Mr. Boythorn, with great vigour. 

" Do you really 1 " returned Mr. Skimpole, in his easy light vein. 
" But, that's taking trouble, surely. And why should you take 
trouble ? Here am I, content to receive things childishly, as they 
fall out : and I never take trouble ! I come down here, for instance, 
and I find a mighty potentate, exacting homage. Veiy well ! I 
say, ' Mighty potentate, here is my homage ! It's easier to give it, 
than to withhold it. Here it is. If you have anything of an 
agreeable nature to show me, I shall be happy to see it ; if you 
have anything of an agreeable nature to give me, I shall be happy 
to accept it.' Miglity potentate replies in effect, 'This is a sensible 
fellow. I find him accord with my digestion and my bilious system. 
He doesn't impose upon me the necessity of rolling myself up like 
a hedgehog with my points outward. I expand, I open, I turn my 
silver lining outward like Milton's cloud, and it's more agreeable to 
both of us.' That's my view of such things : speaking as a child ! " 

"But suppose you went down somewhere else to-morrow," said 
Mr. Boythorn, " where there was the opposite of that feUow — or 
of this fellow. How then ? " 

" How then ? " said Mr. Skimpole, with an appearance of the 
utmost simplicity and candour. " Just the same, then ! I should 
say, ' My esteemed Boythorn ' — to make you the personification of 
our imaginary friend — ' my esteemed Boythorn, you object to the 
mighty potentate ? Very good. So do I. I take it that my busi- 
ness in the social system is to be agreeable ; I take it that every- 
body's business in the social system is to be agreeable. It's a 
system of harmony, in short. Therefore, if you object, I object. 
Now, excellent Boythorn, let us go to dinner ! ' " 

" But excellent Boythorn might say," returned our host, swelling 
and growing very red, " I'll be " 



236 BLEAK HOUSE. 

" I understand," said Mr. Skimpole. "Very likely he would." 

" if I will go to dinner ! " cried Mr. Boy thorn, in a violent 

burst, and stopping to strike his stick upon the ground. " And he 
would probably add, ' Is there such a thing as principle, Mr. Harold 
Skimpole 1 ' " 

" To which Harold Skimpole would reply, you know," he returned 
in his gayest manner, and with his most ingenuous smile, " ' Upon 
my life I have not the least idea ! I don't know what it is you 
call by that name, or where it is, or who possesses it. If you possess 
it and find it comfortable, I am quite delighted, and congratulate 
you heartily. But I know nothing about it, I assure you ; for I 
am a mere child, and I lay no claim to it, and I don't want it ! ' 
So, you see, excellent Boythorn and I would go to dinner after all ! " 

This was one of many little dialogues between them, which I 
always expected to end, and which I dare say would have ended 
under other circumstances, in some violent explosion on the part of 
our host. But he had so high a sense of his hospitable and respon- 
sible position as our entertainer, and my Guardian laughed so sin- 
cerely at and with Mr. Skimpole, as a child who blew bubbles and 
broke them all day long, that matters never went beyond this point. 
Mr. Skimpole, who always seemed quite unconscious of having been 
on delicate ground, then betook himself to beginning some sketch 
in the park which he never finished, or to playing fragments of airs 
on the piano, or to singing scraps of songs, or to lying down on his 
back under a tree, and looking at the sky — which he couldn't 
. help thinking, he said, was what he was meant for ; it suited him 
so exactly. 

" Enterprise and effort," he would say to us (on his back), "are 
delightful to me. I believe I am truly cosmopolitan. I have the 
deepest sympathy with them. I lie in a shady place like this, and 
think of adventurous spirits going to the North Pole, or penetrating 
to the heart of the Torrid Zone, with admiration. Mercenary 
creatures ask, ' What is the use of a man's going to the North 
Pole ? What good does it do 1 ' I can't say ; but, for anything I 
can say, he may go for the purjDose — though he don't know it — 
of employing my thoughts as I lie here. Take an extreme case. 
Take the case of the Slaves on American plantations. I dare say 
they are worked hard, I dare say they don't altogether like it, I 
dare say theirs is an unpleasant experience on the Avhole ; but, they 
people the landscape for me, they give it a poetry for me, and per- 
haps that is one of the pleasanter objects of their existence. I am 
very sensible of it, if it be, and I shouldn't wonder if it were ! " 

I always wondered on these occasions whether he ever thought of 
Mrs. Skimpole and the children, and in what point of view they 



BLEAK HOUSE, 237 

presented themselves to his cosmopolitan mind. So far as I could 
understand, they rarely presented themselves at all. 

The week had gone round to the Saturday following that beating 
of my heart in the church ; and every day had been so bright and 
blue,.'that to ramble in the woods, and to see the light striking down 
among the transparent leaves, and sparkling in the beautiful inter- 
lacings of the shadows of the trees, while the birds poured out their 
songs, and the air was drowsy with the hum of insects, had been 
most delightful. We had one favourite spot, deep in moss and last 
year's leaves, where there were some felled trees from which the 
bark was all stripped off. Seated among these, we looked through 
a green vista supported by thousands of natural columns, the whit- 
ened stems of trees, upon a distant prospect made so radiant by its 
contrast with the shade in which we sat, and made so precious by 
the arched perspective through which we saw it, that it was like a 
glimpse of the better land. Upon the Saturday we sat here, Mr. 
Jarndyce, Ada, and I, until we heard thunder muttering in the 
distance, and felt the large rain-drops rattle through the leaves. 

The weather had been all the week extremely sultry ; but, the 
storm broke so suddenly — upon us, at least, in that sheltered spot 
— that before we reached the outskirts of the wood, the thunder 
and lightning were frequent, and the rain came plunging through 
the leaves, as if every drop were a great leaden bead. As it was 
not a time for standing among trees, we ran out of the wood, and 
up and down the moss-grown steps which crossed the plantation- 
fence like two broad-staved ladders placed back to back, and made 
for a keeper's lodge which was close at hand. We had often 
noticed the dark beauty of this lodge standing in a deep twilight of 
trees, and how the ivy clustered over it, and how there was a steep 
hollow near, where we had once seen the keeper's dog dive down 
into the fern as if it were water. 

The lodge was so dark within, now the sky was overcast, that 
we only clearly saw the man who came to the door when we took 
shelter there, and put two chairs for Ada and me. The lattice- 
windows were all thrown open, and we sat, just within tlie door- 
way, watching the storm. It was grand to see how the wind 
awoke, and bent the trees, and drove the rain before it like a cloud 
of smoke ; and to hear the solemn thunder, and to see the lightning ; 
and, while thinking with awe of the tremendous powers by which 
our little lives are encompassed, to consider how beneficent they 
are, and how upon the smallest flower and leaf there was already a 
freshness poured from all this seeming rage, which seemed to make 
creation new again. 

" Is it not dangerous to sit in so exposed a place ? " 



238 BLEAK HOUSE. 

" no, Esther clear ! " said Ada, quietly. 

Ada said it to me ; but / had not spoken. 

The beating at my heart came back again. I had never heard 
the voice, as I had never seen the face, but it affected me in the 
same strange way. Again, in a moment, there arose befoJie my 
mind innumerable pictures of myself. / 

Lady Dedlock had taken shelter in the lodge, before our ^rival 
there, and had come out of the gloom within. She stood biriiind 
my chair, with her hand upon it. I saw her with her hana close 
to my shoulder, when I turned my head. ■'• 

" I have frightened you ?" she said. '^•<* 

No. It was not fright. Why should I be frightened ! ^ 

"I believe," said Lady Dedlock to my Guardian, " I have the 
pleasure of speaking to Mr. Jarndyce." 

" Your remembrance does me more honour than I had supposed 
it would. Lady Dedlock," he returned. 

" I recognised you in church on Sunday. I am sorry that any 
local disputes of Sir Leicester's — they are not of his seeking, how- 
ever, I believe — should render it a matter of some absurd difficulty 
to show you any attention here." 

" I am aware of the circumstances," returned my Guardian with 
a smile, " and am sufficiently obliged." 

She had given him her hand, in an indifferent way that seemed 
habitual to her, and spoke in a correspondingly indifferent manner, 
though in a very pleasant voice. She was as graceful as she was 
beautiful ; perfectly self-possessed ; and had the air, I thought, of 
being able to attract and interest any one, if she had thought it 
worth her while. The keeper had brought her a chair, on which 
she sat, in the middle of the porch between us. 

" Is the young gentleman disposed of, whom you wrote to Sir 
Leicester about, and whose wishes Sir Leicester was sorry not to 
have it in his power to advance in any way 1 " she said, over her 
shoulder, to my Guardian. 

" I hope so," said he. 

She seemed to respect him, and even to wish to conciliate him. 
There was something very winning in her haughty manner ; and it 
became more familiar — I was going to say more easy, but that 
could hardly be — - as she spoke to him over her shoulder. 

" I presume this is your other ward. Miss Clare ?" 

He presented Ada, in form. 

" You will lose the disinterested part of your Don Quixote char- 
acter," said Lady Dedlock to Mr. Jarndyce, over her shoulder 
again, " if you only redress the wrongs of beauty like this. But 
present me," and she turned full upon me, " to this young lady 
too ! " 



BLEAK HOUSE. 239 

" Miss Summerson really is my ward,'' said Mr. Jarndyce. " I 
am responsible to no Lord Chancellor in her case." 

" Has Miss Summerson lost both her parents 1 " said my Lady. 

" Yes." 

" She is very fortunate in her guardian." 

Lady Dedlock looked at me, and I looked at her, and said I was 
indeed. All at once she turned from me with a hasty air, almost 
expressive of displeasure or dislike, and spoke to him over her 
shoulder again. 

" Ages have passed since we were in the habit of meeting, Mr. 
Jarndyce." 

" A long time. At least I thought it was a long time, until I 
saw you last Sunday," he returned. 

" What ! Even you are a courtier, or think it necessary to 
become one to me ! " she said, with some disdain. " I have 
achieved that reputation, I suppose." 

" You have achieved so much, Lady Dedlock," said my Guar- 
dian, " that you pay some little penalty, I dare say. But none 
to me." 

" So much ! " she repeated, slightly laughing. " Yes ! " 

With her air of superiority, and power, and fascination, and I 
know not what, she seemed to regard Ada and me as little more 
than children. So, as she slightly laughed, and afterwards sat 
looking at the rain, she was as self-possessed, and as free to occupy 
herself with her own thoughts, as if she had been alone. 

" I think you knew my sister, when we were abroad together, 
better than you knew me 1 " she said, looking at him again. 

" Yes, we happened to meet oftener," he returned. 

"We went our several ways," said Lady Dedlock, "and had 
little in common even before we agreed to differ. It is to be 
regretted, I suppose, but it could not be helped." 

Lady Dedlock again sat looking at the rain. The storm soon 
began to pass upon its way. The shower greatly abated, the 
lightning ceased, the thunder rolled among the distant hills, and 
the sun began to glisten on the wet leaves and the falling rain. 
As we sat there, silently, we saw a little pony phaeton coming 
towards us at a merry pace. 

" The messenger is coming back, my Lady," said the keeper, 
"with the carriage." 

As it drove up, we saw that there were two people inside. There 
alighted from it, with some cloaks and wrappers, first the French- 
woman whom I had seen in church, and secondly the pretty girl ; 
the Frenchwoman, with a defiant confidence ; the pretty girl, con- 
fused and hesitatinor. 



240 BLEAK HOUSE. 

• " What now ? " said Lady Dedlock. " Two ! " 
" I am your maid, my Lady, at the present," said the French- 
woman. " The message was for the attendant." 

" I was afraid you might mean me, my Lady," said the pretty 

girl. 

"I did mean you, child," replied her mistress, calmly. "Put 
that shawl on me." 

She slightly stooped her shoulders to receive it, and the pretty 
girl lightly dropped it in its place. The Frenchwoman stood un- 
noticed, looking on with her lips veiy tightly set. 

" I am son-y," said Lady Dedlock to Mr. Jarndyce, "that we 
are not likely to renew our former acquaintance. You will allow 
me to send the carriage back for your two wards. It shall be here 
directly." 

But, as he would on no account accept this offer, she took a 
graceful leave of Ada — none of me — and put her hand upon his 
proffered arm, and got into the carriage ; which was a little, low, 
park carriage, with a hood. 

" Come in, child," she said to the pretty girl, " I shall want you. 
Go on ! " 

The carriage rolled away ; and the Frenchwoman, with the 
wrappers she had brought hanging over her arm, remained stand- 
ing where she had alighted. 

I suppose there is nothing Pride can so little bear with, as Pride 
itself, and that she was punished for her imperious manner. Her 
retaliation was the most singular I could have imagined. She 
remained perfectly still until the carriage had turned into the 
drive, and then, without the least discomposure of countenance, 
slipped off her shoes, left them on the ground, and walked delib- 
erately in the same direction, through the wettest of the wet 
grass. 

"Is that young woman mad ? " said my Guardian. | 

" no, sir ! " said the keej^er, who, with his wife, was looking < 
after her. ". Hortense is not one of that sort. She has as good a | 
head-piece as the best. But she's mortal high and passionate — 
powerful high and passionate ; and what with having notice to '. 
leave, and having others put above her, she don't take kindly 1 
to it." ' 

" But why should she walk, shoeless, through all that water ? " j 
said my Guardian. 

" Why, indeed, sir, unless it is to cool her down ! " said the man. 

"Or unless she fancies it's blood," said the woman. "She'd 
as soon walk through that as anything else, I think, when her 
own's up ! " 



BLEAK HOUSE. 241 

We passed not far from the House, a few minutes afterwards. 
Peaceful as it had looked when we first saw it, it looked even more 
so now, with a diamond spray glittering all about it, a light wind 
blowing, the birds no longer hushed but singing strongly, every- 
thing refreshed by the late rain, and the little carriage shining at 
the doorway like a fairy carriage made of silver. Still, very stead- 
fastly and quietly walking towards it, a peaceful figure too in the 
landscape, went Mademoiselle Hortense, shoeless, through the wet 



CHAPTER XIX. 

MOVING ON. 

It is the long vacation in the regions of Chancery Lane. The 
good ships Law and Equity, those teak-built, copper-bottomed, 
iron-fastened, brazen-faced, and not by any means fast-sailing Chp- 
pers, are laid up in ordinary. The Flying Dutchman, ^\^th a crew 
of ghostly clients imploring all whom they may encounter to peruse 
their papers, has drifted, for the time being, Heaven knows where. 
The Courts are all shut up ; the public offices lie in a hot sleep ; 
Westminster Hall itself is a shady solitude where nightingales 
might sing, and a tenderer class of suitors than is usually found 
there, walk. 

The Temple, Chancery Lane, Serjeants' Inn, and Lincoln's Inn 
even unto the Fields, are like tidal harbours at low water ; where 
stranded proceedings, offices at anchor, idle clerks lounging on lop- 
sided stools that will not recover their perpendicular imtil the cur- 
rent of Term sets in, lie high and dry upon the ooze of the long 
vacation. Outer doors of chambers are shut up by the score, mes- 
sages and parcels are to be left at the Porter's Lodge by the bushel. 
A crop of grass would grow in the chinks of the stone pavement 
outside Lincoln's Inn Hall, but that the ticket-porters, who have 
nothing to do beyond sitting in the shade there, with their white 
aprons over their heads to keep the flies off", grub it up and eat it 
thoughtfully. 

There is only one Judge in town. Even he only comes twice 
a week to sit in chambers. If the country folks of those assize 
towns on his circuit could only see him now ! No full-bottomed wig, 
no red petticoats, no fur, no javelin-men, no white wands. Merely 
a close-shaved gentleman in white trousers and a white hat, with 
sea-bronze on the judicial countenance, and a strip of bark peeled 



242 BLEAK HOUSE. 

by the solar rays from the judicial nose, who calls in at the shell- 
fish shop as he comes along, and drinks iced ginger-beer ! 

The bar of England is scattered over the face of the earth, 
How England can get on through four long summer months with- 
out its bar — which is its acknowledged refuge in adversity, and 
its only legitimate triumph in prosperity — is beside the question ; 
assuredly that shield and buckler of Britannia are not in present 
wear. The learned gentleman who is always so tremendously 
indignant at the unprecedented outrage committed on the feelings 
of his client by the opposite party, that he never seems likely to 
recover it, is doing infinitely better than might be expected, in 
Switzerland. The learned gentleman who does the withering busi- 
ness, and who blights all opponents with his gloomy sarcasm, is as 
merry as a grig at a French watering-place. The learned gentleman 
who weeps by the pint on the smallest provocation, has not shed 
tear these six weeks. The very learned gentleman who has cooled 
the natural heat of his gingery complexion in pools and fountains 
of law, until he has become great in knotty arguments for Term- 
time, when he poses the drowsy Bench with legal "chafi"," inexpli- 
cable to the uninitiated and to most of the initiated too, is roaming, 
with a characteristic delight in aridity and dust, about Constanti- 
nople. Other dispersed fragments of the same great Palladium 
are to be found on the canals of Venice, at the second cataract of 
the Nile, in the baths of Germany, and sprinkled on the sea-sand 
all over the English coast. Scarcely one is to be encountered in 
the deserted region of Chancery Lane. If such a lonely membe: 
of the bar do flit across the waste, and come upon a prowlingi 
suitor who is unable to leave oft' haunting the scenes of his anxiety, 
they frighten one another, and retreat into opposite shades. 

It is the hottest long vacation known for many years. All the* 
young clerks are madly in love, and, according to their varioual 
degrees, pine for bliss with the beloved object, at Margate, Rams-I 
gate, or G-ravesend. All the middle-aged clerks think their familiea; 
too large. All the unowned dogs who stray into the Inns of Court J 
and pant about staircases and other diy places, seeking water, give 
short howls of aggravation. All the blind men's dogs in the streets 
draw their masters against pumps, or trip them over buckets. A 
shop with a sun-blind, and a watered pavement, and a bowl of 
gold and silver fish in the window, is a sanctuary. Temple Bar 
gets so hot, that it is, to the adjacent Strand and Fleet Street, 
what a heater is in an urn, and keeps them simmering all night. 

There are ofiices about the Inns of Court in which a man might 
be cool, if any coolness were worth purchasing at such a price in 
dulness ; but, the little thoroughfares immediately outside those 






BLEAK HOUSE. 243 

retirements seem to blaze. In Mr. Krook's court, it is so hot that 
the people turn their houses inside out, and sit in chairs upon the 
pavement — Mr. Krook included, who there pursues his studies, 
with his cat (who never is too hot) by his side. The Sol's Arms 
has discontinued the harmonic meetings for the season, and Little 
Swills is engaged at the Pastoral Gardens down the river, where 
he comes out in quite an 'utiocent manner, and sings comic ditties 
of a juvenile complexion, calculated (as the bill says) not to wound 
the feelings of the most fastidious mind. 

Over all the legal neighbourhood, there hangs, like some great 
veil of rust, or gigantic cobweb, the idleness and pensiveness of the 
long vacation. Mr. Snagsby, law-stationer of Cook's Court, Cursitor 
Street, is sensible of the influence ; not only in his mind as a sym- 
pathetic and contemplative man, but also in his business as a law- 
stationer aforesaid. He has more leisure for musing in Staple Inn 
and in the Rolls Yard, during the long vacation, than at other 
seasons ; and he says to the two 'prentices, what a thing it is in 
such hot weather to think that you live in an island, with the sea 
a rolling and a bowling right round you. 

Guster is busy in the little drawing-room, on this present after- 
noon in the long vacation, when Mr. and Mrs. Snagsby have it in 
contemplation to receive company. The expected guests are rather 
select than numerous, being Mr. and Mrs. Chadband, and no more. 
From Mr. Chadband's being much given to describe himself, both 
verbally and in writing, as a vessel, he is occasionally mistaken by 
strangers for a gentleman connected with navigation ; but, he is, 
as he expresses it, "in the ministry." Mr. Chadband is attached 
to no particular denomination ; and is considered by his persecutors 
to have nothing so very remarkable to say on the greatest of sub- 
jects as to render his volunteering, on his own accoimt, at all 
incumbent on his conscience ; but, he has his followers, and Mrs. 
Snagsby is of the number. Mrs. Snagsby has but recently taken 
a passage upward by the vessel, Chadband ; and her attention was 
attracted to that Bark A 1, when she was something flushed by 
the hot weather. 

" My little woman," says Mr. Snagsby to the sparrows in Staple 
Inn, " likes to have her religion rather sharp, you see ! " 

So, Guster, much impressed by regarding herself for the time as 
the handmaid of Chadband, whom she knows to be endowed with 
the gift of holding forth for four hours at a stretch, prepares the 
little drawing-room for tea. All the furniture is shaken and dusted, 
the portraits of Mr. and Mrs. Snagsby are touched up with a wet 
cloth, the best tea-service is set forth, and there is excellent pro- 
vision made of dainty new bread, crusty twists, cool fresh butter. 



244 BLEAK HOUSE. 

thin slices of ham, tongue and G-erman sausage, and delicate little 
rows of anchovies nestling in parsley; not to mention new-laid 
eggs, to be brought up warm in a napkin, and hot buttered toast. 
For, Chadband is rather a consuming vessel — • the persecutors say 
a gorging vessel ; and can wield such weapons of the flesh as a 
knife and fork, remarkably well. 

Mr. Snagsby in his best coat, looking at all the preparations 
when they are completed, and coughing his cough of deference 
behind his hand, says to Mrs. Snagsby, "At what time did you 
expect Mr. and Mrs. Chadband, my love 1 " 

" At six," says Mrs. Snagsby. 

Mr. Snagsby observes in a mild and casual way, that " it's gone 
that." 

" Perhaps you'd like to begin without them," is Mrs. Snagsby's 
reproachful remark. 

Mr. Snagsby does look as if he would like it very much, but he 
says, with his cough of mildness, " No, my dear, no. I merely 
named the time." 

"What's time," says Mrs. Snagsby, "to eternity?" 

" Very true, my dear," says Mr. Snagsby. " Only when a per- 
son lays in victuals for tea, a person does it with a view — perhaps 
— more to time. And when a time is named for having tea, it's 
better to come up to it." 

" To come up to it ! " Mrs. Snagsby repeats with severity. 
" Up to it ! As if Mr. Chadband was a fighter ! " 

" Not at all, my dear," says Mr. Snagsby. 

Here, Guster, who has been looking out of the bed-room win- 
dow, comes rustling and scratching down the little staircase like a 
popular ghost, and, felling flushed into the dra"\ving-room, announces 
that Mr. and Mrs. Chadband have appeared in the court. The 
bell at the inner door in the passage immediately thereafter tin- 
kling, she is admonished by Mrs. Snagsby, on pain of instant 
reconsignment to her patron saint, not to omit the ceremony of 
announcement. Much discomposed in her nerves (which were 
previously in the best order) by this threat, she so fearfully muti- 
lates that point of state as to announce " Mr. and Mrs. Cheeseming, 
least which, Imeantersay whatsername ! " and retires conscience- 
stricken from the presence. 

Mr. Chadband is a large yellow man, with a fat smile, and a 
general appearance of having a good deal of train oil in his system. 
Mrs. Chadband is a stern, severe-looking, silent woman. Mr. 
Chadband moves softly and cumbrously, not unlike a bear who has 
been taught to walk upright. He is very much embarrassed about 
the arms, as if they were inconvenient to him, and he wanted to 



BLEAK HOUSE. ' 245 

grovel ; is very much in a perspiration about the head ; and never 
speaks without first putting up his great hand, as delivering a 
token to his hearers that he is going to edify them. 

"My friends," says Mr. Chadband, "Peace be on this house! 
On the master thereof, on the mistress thereof, on the young 
maidens, and on the young men ! My friends, why do I wish for 
peace ? What is peace ? Is it war ? No. Is it strife 1 No. Is 
it lovely, and gentle, and beautiful, and pleasant, and serene, and 
joyful 1 yes ! Therefore, my friends, I wish for peace, upon 
you and upon yours." 

In consequence of Mrs. Snagsby looking deeply edified, Mr. 
Snagsby thinks it expedient on the whole to say Amen, which is 
well received. 

"Now, my friends," proceeds Mr. Chadband, "since I am upon 
this theme — " 

Guster presents herself. Mrs. Snagsby, in a spectral bass voice, 
and without removing her eyes from Chadband, says, with dread 
distinctness, "Go away!" 

" Now, my friends," says Chadband, " since I am upon this 
theme, and in my lowly path improving it " 

Guster is heard unaccountably to murmur, " one thousing seven 
hunderd and eighty-two." The spectral voice repeats more solemnly, 
" Go away ! " 

"Now, my friends," says Mr. Chadband, "we will inquire in a 
spirit of love — " 

Still Guster reiterates " one thousing seven hunderd and eighty- 
two." 

Mr. Chadband, pausing with the resignation of a man accus- 
tomed to be persecuted, and languidly folding up his chin into his 
fat smile, says, " Let us hear the maiden ! Speak, maiden ! " 

" One thousing seven hunderd and eighty-two, if you please, sir. 
Which he wish to know what the shilling ware for," says Guster, 
breathless. 

" For?" returns Mrs. Chadband. " For his fare ! " 

Guster replied that " he insistes on one and eightpence, or on 
summonsizzing the party." Mrs. Snagsby and Mrs. Chadband are 
proceeding to grow shrill in indignation, when Mr. Chadband quiets 
the tumidt by lifting up his hand. 

"My friends," says he, "I remember a duty unfulfilled yester- 
day. It is right that I should be chastened in some penalty. I 
ought not to murmur. Rachael, pay the eightpence ! " 

While Mrs. Snagsby, drawing her breath, looks hard at Mr. 
Snagsby, as who should say, " You hear this Apostle ! " and while 
Mr. Chadband glows with humility and train oil, Mrs. Chadband 



246 BLEAK HOUSE. 

pays the money. It is Mr. Chadband's habit — it is the head and 
front of his pretensions indeed — to keep this sort of debtor and 
creditor account in the smallest items, and to post it publicly on 
the most trivial occasions. 

" My friends," says Chadband, " eightpence is not much ; it 
might justly have been one and fourpence ; it might justly havi 
been half-a-crown. let us be joyful, joyful ! let us be joyful ! ' 

With which remark, which appears from its sound to be an 
extract in verse, Mr. Chadband stalks to the table, and, before 
taking a chair, lifts up his admonitory hand. 

"My friends," says he, "what is this which we now behold ae 
being spread before us ? Refreshment. Do we need refreshmenl 
then, my friends 1 We do. And why do we need refreshment, 
my friends 1 Because we are but mortal, because we are but sin- 
ful, because we are but of the earth, because we are not of the air. 
Can we fly, my friends 1 We cannot. Why can we not fly, my 
friends ? " 

Mr. Snagsby, presuming on the success of his last point, vent- 
ures to observe ' in a cheerful and rather knowing tone, " No 
wings." But, is immediately frowned down by Mrs. Snagsby. 

"I say, my friends," pursues Mr. Chadband, utterly rejectin] 
and obliterating Mr. Snagsby 's suggestion, "why can we not flyf 
Is it because we are calculated to walk 1 It is. Could we walk, 
my friends, without strength 1 We could not. What should we. 
do without strength, my friends ? Our legs would refuse to beai 
us, our knees would double up, our ankles would turn over, anc 
we should come to the ground. Then from whence, my friends, ii 
a human point of view, do we derive the strength that is necessary 
to our limbs? Is it," says Chadband, glancing over the table, 
" from bread in various forms, from butter which is churned fron 
the milk which is yielded untoe us by the cow, from the egge 
which are laid by the fowl, from ham, from tongue, from sausage 
and from such like 1 It is. Then let us partake of the gooc 
things which are set before us ! " 

The persecutors denied that there was any particular gift ir 
Mr. Chadband's piling verbose flights of stairs, one upon another, 
after this fashion. But this can only be received as a proof oi 
their determination to persecute, since it must be within everybody'a| 
experience, that the Chadband style of oratory is widely received 
and much admired. 

Mr. Chadband, however, having concluded for the present, sit^ 
down at Mrs. Snagsby's table, and lays about him prodigiously.' 
The conversion of nutriment of any sort into oil of the quality 
already mentioned, appears to be a process so inseparable from the 



BLEAK HOUSE. 247 

constitution of this exemplary vessel, that in beginning to eat and 
drink, he may be described as always becoming a kind of consider- 
able Oil Mills, or other large factory for the production of that 
article on a wholesale scale. On the present evening of the long 
vacation, in Cook's Court, Cursitor Street, he does such a powerful 
stroke of business, that the warehouse appears to be quite full when 
the works cease. 

At this period of the entertainment, Guster, who has never 
recovered her first failure, but has neglected no possible or impos- 
sible means of bringing the establishment and herself into contempt 
— among which may be briefly enumerated her unexpectedly per- 
forming clashing military music on Mr. Chadband's head with 
plates, and afterwards crowning that gentleman with muffins — 
at this period of the entertainment, Guster whispers Mr. Snagsby 
that he is wanted. 

" And being wanted in the — not to put too fine a point upon 
it — in the shop ! " says Mr. Snagsby, rising, " perhaps this good 
company will excuse me for half a minute." 

Mr. Snagsby descends, and finds the two 'prentices intently con- 
templating a police constable, who holds a ragged boy by the arm. 

" Why, bless my heart," says Mr. Snagsby, " what's the matter ! " 

"This boy,'' says the constable, "although he's repeatedly told 
to, won't move on — " 

"I'm always a moving on, sir," cries the boy, wiping away his 
grimy tears with his arm. " I've always been a moving and a mov- 
ing on, ever since I was born. Where can I possible move to, sir, 
more nor I do move ! " 

"He won't move on," says the constable, calmly, with a slight 
professional hitch of his neck involving its better settlement in his 
stiff stock, "although he has been repeatedly cautioned, and there- 
fore I am obliged to take him into custody. He's as obstinate a 
young gonoph as I know. He vs^on't move on." 

" my eye ! Where can I move to ! " cries the boy, clutching 
quite desperately at his hair, and beating his bare feet upon the 
floor of Mr. Snagsby's passage. 

"Don't you come none of that, or I shall make blessed short 
work of you ! " says the constable, giving him a passionless shake. 
" My instructions are, that you are to move on. I have told you 
so five hundred times." 

" But where ? " cries the boy. 

"Well! Really, constable, you know," says Mr. Snagsby wist- 
fully, and coughing behind his hand his cough of great perplexity 
and doubt; "really, that does seem a question. Where, you 
know ? " 



»l 



248 BLEAK HOUSE. 

" My instructions don't go to that," replies the constable. " M^ 
instructions are that this boy is to move on." ] 

Do you hear, Jo 1 It is nothing to you or to any one else, thai 
the great lights of the parliamentary sky have failed for some fe'v^ 
years, in this business, to set you the example of moving on. The 
one grand recipe remains for you — the profound philosojDhical 
prescription — the be-all and the end-all of your strange existence 
upon earth. Move on ! You are by no means to move off, Jo, fo: 
the great lights can't at all agree about tliat. Move on ! 

Mr. Snagsby says nothing to this effect ; says nothing at aU, 
indeed ; but coughs his forlornest cough, expressive of no thorough- 
fare in any direction. By this time Mr. and Mrs. Chadband, and 
Mrs. Snagsby, hearing the altercation, have appeared upon the 
stairs. Guster having never left the end of the passage, the whol( 
household are assembled. 

" The simple question is, sir," says the constable, " whether yoi] 
knovp this boy. He says you do." 

Mrs. Snagsby, from her elevation, instantly cries out, " No h( 
don't ! " 

" My lit-tle woman ! " says Mr. Snagsby, looking up the stair 
case. "My love, permit me! Pray have a moment's patiencCi 
my dear. I do know something of this lad, and in what I knov 
of him, I can't say that there's any harm ; perhaps on the contrary,^ 
constable." To whom the law-stationer relates his Joful and woful 
experience, suppressing the half-crown fact. 

" Well ! " says the constable, " so far, it seems, he had groundi 
for what he said. When I took him into custody up in Holbom 
he said you knew him. Upon that, a young man who was in thi 
crowd said he was acquainted with you, and you were a respectabl 
housekeeper, and if I'd call and make the inquiry, he'd appear 
The young man don't seem inclined to keep his word, but — Oh 
Here is the young man ! " 

Enter Mr. Guppy, who nods to Mr. Snagsby, and touches his 
hat with the chivalry of clerkship to the ladies on the stairs. 

" I was strolling away from the office just now, when I found 
this row going on," says Mr. Guppy to the law-stationer; "an 
as your name was mentioned, I thought it was right the thin] 
should be looked into." 

"It was very good-natured of you, sir," says Mr. Snagsby, 
I am obliged to you." And Mr. Snagsby again relates his experience 
again suppressing the half-crown fact. 

" Now, I know where you live," says the constable, then, to Ja 
" You live down in Tom-all- Alone's. That's a nice innocent place 
to live in, ain't it 1 " 



BLEAK HOUSE. 249 

"I can't go and live in no nicer place, sir," replies Jo. "They 

wouldn't have nothink to say to me if I wos to go to a nice inno- 
• cent place fur to live. Who ud go and let a nice innocent lodging 
, to such a reg'lar one as me ! " 

" You are very poor, ain't you 1 " says the constable. 
I "Yes, I am indeed, sir, wery poor in gin'ral," replies Jo. 

" I leave you to judge now ! I shook these two half-crowns out 
, of him," says the constable, producing them to the company, " in 

only putting my hand upon him ! " 

"They're wot's left, Mr. Sangsby," says Jo, "out of a sov'ring 
. as wos give me by a lady in a wale as sed she wos a servant and 
, as come to my crossin one night and asked to be showd this 'ere 

ouse and the ouse wot him as you giv the writin to died at, and 

the berrin-ground wot he's berrid in. She ses to me she ses ' are 

you the boy at the Inkwhich 1 ' she ses. I ses ' yes ' I ses. She 
; ses to me she ses ' can you show me all them places ? ' I ses 

' yes I can ' I ses. And she ses to me ' do it ' and I dun it and 
. she giv me a sov'ring and hooked it. And I an't had much of the 

sov'ring neither," says Jo, with dirty tears, "fur I had to pay five 

bob, down in Tom-all- Alone's, afore they'd square it fur to give me 

change, and then a young man he thieved another five while I was 
, asleep and another boy he thieved ninepence and the landlord he 

stood drains round with a lot more on it." 

" You don't expect anybody to believe this, about the lady and 

the sovereign, do you ? " says the constable, eyeing him aside vnth 
; ineffable disdain. 

" I don't know as I do, sir," replies Jo. " I don't expect nothink 

at all, sir, much, but that's the true hist'ry on it." 

" You see what he is ! " the constable observes to the audience. 

" Well, Mr. Snagsby, if I don't lock him up this time, will you 

engage for his moving on ? " 

" No ! " cries Mrs. Snagsby from the stairs. 
; " My little woman ! " pleads her husband. " Constable, I have 

no doubt he'll move on. You know you really must do it," says 
-Mr. Snagsby. 

t "I'm eveiyways agreeable, sir," says the hapless Jo. 
, "Do it, then," observes the constable. "You know what you 

have got to do. Do it ! And recollect you won't get off so easy 
J next time. Catch hold of your money. Now, the sooner you're 

five mile oft", the better for all parties." 

With this farewell hint, and pointing generally to the setting 

sun, as a likely place to move on to, the constable bids his auditors 
. good afternoon ; and makes the echoes of Cook's Court perform 

slow music for him as he walks away on the shady side, carrying 

his iron-bound hat in his hand for a little ventilation. 



250 BLEAK HOUSE. 



J 



Now, Jo's improbable story concerning the lady and the sovereign 
has awakened more or less the curiosity of all the company. Mr. 
Guppy, who has an inquiring mind in matters of evidence, and who 
has been suffering severely from the lassitude of the long vacation, 
takes that interest in the case, that he enters on a regular cross- 
examination of the witness, which is found so interesting by the 
ladies that Mrs. Snagsby politely invites him to step up-stairs, and 
drink a cup of tea, if he will excuse the disarranged state of the 
tea-table, consequent on their previous exertions. Mr. Guppy 
yielding his assent to this proposal, Jo is requested to follow into 
the drawing-room doorway, where Mr. Guppy takes him in hand 
as a witness, patting him into this shape, that shape, and the other 
shape, like a butterman dealing with so much butter, and worrying 
him according to the best models. Nor is the examination unlike 
many such model displays, both in respect of its eliciting nothing, 
and of its being lengthy ; for, Mr. Guppy is sensible of his talent, 
and Mrs. Snagsby feels, not only that it gratifies her inquisitive 
disposition, but that it lifts her husband's establishment higher up 
in the law. During the progress of this keen encounter, the vessel 
Ohadband, being merely engaged in the oil trade, gets aground, and 
waits to be floated off. 

" Well ! " says Mr. Guppy, " either this boy sticks to it like 
cobbler's- wax, or there is something out of the common here that 
beats anything that ever came into my way at Kenge and Car- 
boy's." 

Mrs. Ohadband whispers Mrs. Snagsby, who exclaims, "You 
don't say so ! " 

" For years ! " replies Mrs. Ohadband. 

" Has known Kenge and Oarboy's office for years," Mrs. Snagsby 
triumphantly explains to Mr. Guppy. " Mrs. Ohadband — this 
gentleman's wife — Reverend Mr. Ohadband." 

" Oh, indeed ! " says Mr. Guppy. 

'• Before I married my present husband," says Mrs. Ohadband 

" Was you a party in anything, ma'am ? " says Mr. Guppj 
transferring his cross-examination. 

"No." 

" Not a party in anything, ma'am ? " says Mr. Guppy. 

Mrs. Ohadband shakes her head. * 

" Perhaps you were acquainted with somebody who was a party 
in something, ma'am ? " says Mr. Guppy, who likes nothing better 
than to model his conversation on forensic principles. 

" Not exactly that, either," replies Mrs. Ohadband, humouring 
the joke with a hard-favoured smile. 

" Not exactly that, either ! " repeats Mr. Guppy. " Very gooi 



« 



II 



BLEAK HOUSE. 251 

Pray, ma'am, was it a lady of your acquaintance who had some 
transactions (we will not at present say what transactions) with 
Kenge and Carboy's office, or was it a gentleman of your acquaint- 
ance 1 Take time, ma'am. We shall come to it presently. Man 
or woman, ma'am?" 

" Neither," says Mrs. Chadband, as before. 

" Oh ! A child ! " says Mr. Guppy, throwing on the admiring 
Mrs. Snagsby the regular acute professional eye which is thrown 
on British jurymen. " Now, ma'am, perhaps you'll have the kind- 
ness to tell us what child." 

"You have got it at last, sir," says Mrs. Chadband, with 
another hard-favoured smile. " Well, sir, it was before your time, 
most likely, judging from your appearance. I was left in charge 
of a child named Esther Summerson, who was put out in life by 
Messrs. Kenge and Carboy." 

" Miss Summerson, ma'am ! " cries Mr. Guppy, excited. 

"/ call her Esther Summerson," says Mrs. Chadband, with 
austerity. " There was no Miss-ing of the girl in my time. It 
was Esther. ' Esther, do this ! Esther, do that ! ' and she was 
made to do it." 

" My dear ma'am," returns Mr. Guppy, moving across the small 
apartment, " the humble individual who now addresses you received 
that young lady in London, when she first came here from the 
establishment to which you have alluded. Allow me to have the 
pleasure of taking you by the hand." 

Mr. Chadband, at last seeing his opportunity, makes his accus- 
tomed signal, and rises with a smoking head, which he dabs with 
his pocket-handkerchief. Mrs. Snagsby whispers " Hush ! " 

"My friends," says Chadband, "we have partaken, in modera- 
tion " (which was certainly not the case so far as he was con- 
cerned), " of the comforts which have been provided for us. May 
this house live upon the fatness of the land ; may corn and wine be 
plentiful therein ; may it grow, may it thrive, may it prosper, may 
it advance, may it proceed, may it press forward ! But, my friends, 
have we partaken of anything else ? We have. My friends, of 
what else have we partaken ? Of spiritual profit ? Yes. From 
whence have we derived that spiritual profit ? My young friend, 
stand forth ! " 

Jo, thus apostrophised, gives a slouch backward, and another 
slouch forward, and another slouch to each side, and confronts the 
eloquent Chadband, with evident doubts of his intentions. 

"My young friend," says Chadband, "you are to us a pearl, you 
are to us a diamond, you are to us a gem, you are to us a jewel. 
And why, my young friend ? " 



262 BLEAK HOUSE. 



^ 



"/ don't know," replies Jo. "I don't know nothink." 
"My young friend," says Chadband, "it is because you knov? 
nothing that you are to us a gem and jewel. For what are yoUj 
my young friend 1 Are you a beast of the field 1 No. A bird of 
the air ? No. A fish of the sea or river 1 No. You are a human 
boy, my young friend. A human boy. glorious to be a human 
boy ! And why glorious, my young friend ? Because you are 
capable of receiving the lessons of wisdom, because you are capable 
of profiting by this discourse which I now deliver for your gooi 
because you are not a stick, or a staff", or a stock, or a stone, or 
post, or a pillar." 

O running stream of sparkling joy 
To be a soaring human boy ! 

And do you cool yourself in that stream now, my young friend 1 
No. Why do you not cool yourself in tliat stream now ? Because 
you are in a state of darkness, because you are in a state of obscur- 
ity, because you are in a state of sinfulness, because you are in a 
state of bondage. My young friend, what is bondage ? Let us, in 
a spirit of love, inquire." 

At this threatening stage of the discourse, Jo, who seems to have 
been gradually going out of his mind, smears his right arm over his 
face, and gives a terrible yawn. Mrs. Snagsby indignantly ex- _ 
presses her belief that he is a limb of the arch-fiend. 

"My friends," says Mr. Chadband, with his persecuted chii 
folding itself into its fat smile again as he looks round, " it is righi 
that I should be humbled, it is right that I should be tried, it i| 
right that I should be mortified, it is right that I should be cor 
rected. I stumbled, on Sabbath last, when I thought with pridl 
of my three hours' improving. The account is now favourablj 
balanced : my creditor has accepted a composition. O let us be 
joyful, joyful ! let iis be joyful ! " 

Great sensation on the part of Mrs. Snagsby. 

"My friends," says Chadband, looking round him in conclusior 
" I will not proceed with my young friend now. Will you come 
to-morrow, my young friend, and inquire of this good lady where I 
am to be found to deliver a discourse untoe you, and will you comfe 
like the thirsty swallow upon the next day, and upon the day after 
that, and upon the day after that, and upon many pleasant days, tp 
hear discourses?" (This, with a oow-like lightness.) " 

Jo, whose immediate object seems to be to get away on any 
terms, gives a shuffling nod. Mr. Guppy then throws him a penny, 
and Mrs. Snagsby calls to Guster to see him safely out of the house. 
But, before he goes down-stairs, Mr. Snagsby loads him with some 



:>4 



BLEAK HOUSE. 263 

broken meats from the table, which he carries away, hugging iu his 
arms. 

So, Mr. Chadband — of whom the persecutors say that it is no 
wonder he should go on for any length of time uttering such abomi- 
nable nonsense, but that the wonder rather is that he should ever 
leave off, having once the audacity to begin — retires into private 
life until he invests a little capital of supper in the oil-trade. Jo 
moves on, through the long vacation, down to Blackfriars Bridge, 
where he finds a baking stony corner, wherein to settle to his 
repast. 

And there he sits, munching and gnawing, and looking up at the 
great Cross on the summit of St. Paul's Cathedral, glittering above 
a red and violet-tinted cloud of smoke. From the boy's face one 
might suppose that sacred emblem to be, in his eyes, the crowning 
confusion of the great, confused city ; so golden, so high up, so far 
out of his reach. There he sits, the sun going down, the river 
running fast, the crowd flowing by him in two streams — every- 
thing moving on to some purpose and to one end — until he is 
stirred up, and told to " move on " too. 



CHAPTER XX. 

A NEW LODGER. 

''■ The long vacation saunters on towards term-time, like an idle 
river very leisurely strolling down a flat country to the sea. Mr. 
' Guppy saunters along with it congenially. He has blunted the 
■, blade of his penknife, and broken the point off", by sticking that 
- instrument into his desk in every direction. Not that he bears the 
desk any ill-will, but he must do something, and it must be some- 
thing of an unexciting nature, which will lay neither his physical 
• nor his intellectual energies under too heavy contribution. He finds 
1 that nothing agrees with him so well, as to make little gyrations on 
^ one leg of his stool, and stab his desk, and gape. 

Kenge and Carboy are out of town, and the articled clerk has 

' taken out a shooting license, and gone down to his father's, and 

Mr. Guppy's two fellow-stipendiaries are away on leave. Mr. 

Guppy, and Mr. Richard Carstone, divide the dignity of the office. 

{ But Mr. Carstone is for the time being established in Kenge's room, 

" whereat Mr. Guppy chafes. So exceedingly, that he with biting 

sarcasm informs his mother, in the confidential moments when he 

' sups with her off" a lobster and lettuce, in the Old Street Road, that 



254 BLEAK HOUSE. 

he is afraid the office is hardly good enough for swells, and that if 
he had known there was a swell coming, he would have got ii| 
painted. T 

Mr. Guppy suspects everybody who enters on the occupation of 
a stool in Kenge and Carboy's office, of entertaining, as a matter of 
course, sinister designs upon him. He is clear that every such per 
son wants to depose him. If he be ever asked how, why, when, o; 
wherefore, he shuts up one eye and shakes his head. On tb 
strength of these profound views, he in the most ingenious manne: 
takes infinite pains to counterplot,, when there is no plot ; and playi 
the deepest games of chess without any adversary. 

It is a source of much gratification to Mr. Guppy, therefore, t( 
find the newcomer constantly poring over the papers in Jarndyce 
and Jarndyce ; for he well knows that nothing but confusion and 
failure can come of that. His satisfaction communicates itself to a 
third saunterer through the long vacation in Kenge and Carboy's 
office ; to wit. Young Smallweed. 

Whether Young Smallweed (metaphorically called Small and ek 
Chick Weed, as it were jocularly to express a fledgling,) was ever a 
boy, is much doubted in Lincoln's Inn. He is now something, 
under fifteen, and an old limb of the law. He is facetiously under- 
stood to entertain a passion for a lady at a cigar-shop, in the neigb 
bourhood of Chancery Lane, and for her sake to have broken off i 
contract with another lady, to whom he had been engaged some 
years. He is a town-made article, of small stature and weazen 
features ; but may be perceived from a considerable distance bj 
means of his very tall hat. To become a Guppy is the object o1 
his ambition. He dresses at that gentleman (by whom he is 
patronised), talks at him, walks at him, founds himself entirely on 
him. He is honoured with Mr. Guppy's particular confidence, anc 
occasionally advises him, from the deep wells of his experience, or 
difficult points in private life. 

Mr. Guppy has been lolling out of window all the morning, aftei 
trying all the stools in succession and finding none of them easyj 
and after several times putting his head into the iron safe with i 
notion of cooling it. Mr. Smallweed has been tmce dispatched foi 
effervescent drinks, and has twice mixed them in the two officio] 
tumblers and stirred them up with the ruler. Mr. Guppy pro- 
pounds, for Mr. Smallweed's consideration, the paradox that thi 
more you drink the thirstier you are ; and reclines his head upa 
the window-sill in a state of hopeless languor. 

While thus looking out into the shade of Old Square, Lincoln's! 
Inn, surveying the intolerable bricks and mortar, Mr. Guppy be- 
comes conscious of a manly whisker emerging from the cloisterei 



BLEAK HOUSE. 255 

walk below, and tiirning itself up in the direction of his face. At 
the same time, a low whistle is wafted through the Inn, and a 
suppressed voice cries, " Hip ! Gup-py ! " 

" Why, you don't mean it 1 " says Mr. Guppy, aroused. " Small ! 
Here's Jobliug ! " Small's head looks out of window too, and nods 
to Jobling. 

" Where have you sprung from ? " inquires Mr. Guppy. 

" From the market-gardens down by Deptford. I can't stand it 
; any longer. I must enlist. I say ! I wish you'd lend me half-a- 
, crown. Upon my soul I'm hungry." 

Jobling looks hungry, and also has the appearance of having nm 
, to seed in the market-gardens down by Deptford. 

" I say ! Just throw out half-a-crown, if you have got one to 
spare. I want to get some dinner." 

" Will you come and dine with me ? " says Mr. Guppy, throwing 
, out the coin, which Mr. Jobling catches neatly. 

" How long should I have to hold out 1 " says Jobhng. 

" Not half an hour. I am only Avaiting here, till the enemy 
; goes," returns Mr. Guppy, butting inward with his head. 
- " What enemy ? " 

" A new one. Going to be articled. Will you wait 1 " 

" Can you give a fellow anything to read in the meantime ? " says 
I Mr. Jobling. 

. Smallweed suggests the Law List. But Mr. Jobling declares, 
f with much earnestness, that he " can't stand it." 

" You shall have the paper," says Mr. Guppy. " He shall bring 
t it down. But you had better not be seen about here. Sit on 
; our staircase and read. It's a quiet place." 

i Jobling nods intelligence and acquiescence. The sagacious Small- 
I weed supplies him with the newspaper, and occasionally drops his 
f eye upon him from the landing as a precaution against his becoming 
I disgusted with waiting, and making an untimely departure. At 
(last the enemy retreats, and then Smallweed fetches Mr. Jobling 
;up. 

" Well, and how are you ? " says Mr. Guppy, shaking hands with 

■ him. 

I "So, so. How are you ? " 

Mr. Guppy replying that he is not much to boast of, Mr. Jobling 
I ventures on the question, " How is she ? " This Mr. Guppy resents 

as a liberty ; retorting, " Jobling, there are chords in the human 

mind — " Jobling begs pardon. 
i " Any subject but that ! " says Mr. Guppy, with a gloomy en- 

■ joyment of his injury. "For there are chords, Jobling — " 
I Mr. Jobling begs pardon again. 



256 BLEAK HOUSE. 

During this short colloquy, the active Smallweed, who is of the 
dinner party, has written in legal characters on a slip of paper, 
" Return immediately." This notification to all whom it may con- 
cern, he inserts in the letter-box : and then putting on the tall hat, 
at the angle of inclination at which Mr. Guppy wears his, informs 
his patron that they may now make themselves scarce. 

Accordingly they betake themselves to a neighbouring dining- 
house, of the class known among its frequenters by the denomina- 
tion Slap-Bang, where the waitress, a bouncing young female of 
forty, is supposed to have made some impression on the susceptible 
Smallweed ; of whom it may be remarked that he is a weird- 
changeling, to whom years are nothing. He stands precociousl; 
possessed of centuries of owlish wisdom. If he ever lay in 
cradle, it seems as if he must have lain there in a tail-coat. He 
has an old, old eye, has Smallweed; and he drinks, and smokes, in 
a monkeyish way ; and his neck is stiff in his collar ; and he is 
never to be taken in ; and he knows all about it, whatever it is^ 
In short, in his bringing up, he has been so nursed by Iiaw ani 
Equity that he has become a kind of fossil Imp, to account for 
whose terrestrial existence it is reported at the public offices that 
his father was John Doe, and his mother the only female membei 
of the Roe family ; also that his first long-clothes were made fro 
a blue bag. 

Into the Dining House, unaffected by the seductive show in the 
window, of artificially whitened cauliflowers and poultry, verdant 
baskets of peas, coolly blooming cucumbers, and joints ready for the 
spit, Mr. Smallweed leads the way. They know him there, and 
defer to him. He has his favourite box, he bespeaks all the papers, 
he is down upon bald patriarchs, who keep them more than ten 
minutes afterwards. It is of no use trying him with anything less 
than a full-sized "bread," or proposing to him any joint in cut, 
unless it is in the veiy best cut. In the matter of gravy he is 
adamant. 

Conscious of his elfin power, and submitting to his dread experi- 
ence, Mr. Guppy consults him in the choice of that day's banquet ; 
turning an appealing look toward him as the waitress repeats the 
catalogue of viands, and saying " What do you take. Chick ? '| 
Chick, out of the profundity of his artfulness, prefening " veal an(| 
ham and French beans — And don't you forget the stuffing, Polly, 
(with an unearthly cock of his venerable eye) ; Mr. Gupj^y and Mr. 
jobling give the like order. Three pint pots of half-and-half are 
superadded. Quickly the waitress returns, bearing what is appar- 
ently a model of the tower of Babel, but what is really a pile of 
plates and flat tin dish-covers. Mr. Smallweed, approving of what 



%\ 

at 

1 



'* 



BLEAK HOUSE. 267 

is set before him, conveys intelligent benignity into his ancient eye, 
and winks upon her. Then, amid a constant coming in, and going 
out, and running about, and a clatter of crockery, and a rumbling 
up and down of the machine which brings the nice cuts from the 
kitchen, and a shrill crying for more nice cuts down the speaking- 
pipe, and a shrill reckoning of the cost of nice cuts that have been 
disposed of, and a general flush and steam of hot joints, cut and 
uncut, and a considerably heated atmosphere in which the soiled 
knives and table-cloths seem to break out spontaneously into erup- 
tions of grease and blotches of beer, the legal triumvirate appease 
their appetites. 

Mr. Jobling is buttoned up closer than mere adornment might 
require. His hat presents at the rims a pecvdiar appearance of a 
glistening nature, as if it had been a favourite snail-promenade. The 
same phenomenon is visible on some parts of his coat, and particu- 
larly at the seams. He has the faded appearance of a gentleman 
in embarrassed circumstances ; even his light whiskers droop with 
something of a shabby air. 

His appetite is so vigorous, that it suggests spare living for some 
littl». time back. He makes such a speedy end of his plate of 
veal and ham, bringing it to a close while his companions are yet 
midway in theirs, that Mr. Guppy proposes another. " Thank you, 
Guppy," says Mr. Jobling, " I really don't know but what I will 
take another." 

Another being brought, he falls to with great good will. 

Mr. Guppy takes silent notice of him at intervals, until he is 
half way through this second plate and stops to take an enjoying 
pull at his pint pot of half-and-half (also renewed), and stretches 
out his legs and rubs his hands. Beholding him in which glow of 
contentment, Mr. Guppy says : 

"You are a man again, Tony ! " 

" Well, not quite, yet," says Mr. Jobling. " Say, just born." 

" Will you take any other vegetables 1 Grass ? Peas ? Summer 
jcabbage?" 

" Thank you, Guppy," says Mr. Jobling. " I really don't know 
!ibut what I ivill take summer cabbage." 

Order given ; with the sarcastic addition (from Mr. Smallweed) 
iX)f " Without slugs, Polly ! " And cabbage produced. 
I " I am growing up, Guppy," says Mr. Jobling, plying his knife 
And fork with a relishing steadiness. 
, "Glad to hear it." 
I " In fact, I have just turned into my teens," says Mr. Jobling. 

He says no more until he has performed his task, which he 
I^Lchieves as Messrs. Guppy and Smallweed finish theirs ; thus get- 



i 



BLEAK HOUSE. 259 



ting over the ground in excellent style, and beating those two 
gentlemen easily by a veal and ham and a cabbage. 

" Now, Small," says Mr. Guppy, " what woidd you recommend 
about pastry?" 

" Marrow puddings," says Mr. Smallweed, instantly. 

"Aye, aye!" cries Mr. Jobling, with an arch look. "You're 
there, are you 1 Thank you, Guppy, I don't know but what I 
toill take a marrow pudding." 

Three marrow puddings being produced, Mr. Jobling adds, in a 
pleasant humour, that he is coming of age fast. To these succeed, 
by command of Mr. Smallweed, "three Cheshires ; " and to those, 
" three small rums." This apex of the entertainment happily 
reached, Mr. Jobling puts up his legs on the carpeted seat (having 
his own side of the box to himself), leans against the wall, and 
says, " I am grown up, now, Guppy. I have arrived at maturity." 

"What do you think, now," says Mr. Guppy, "about — you 
don't mind Smallweed?" 

" Not the least in the world. I have the pleasure of drinking 
his good health." 

" Sir, to you ! " says Mr. Smallweed. 

"I was saying, what do you think notv," pursues Mr. Guppy, 
" of enlisting 1 " 

"Why, what I may think after dinner," returns Mr. Jobling, 
"is one thing, my dear Guppy, and what I may think before 
dinner is another thing. Still, even after dinner, I ask myself the 
question, What am I to do ? How am I to live ? Ill fo manger, 
you know," says Mr. Jobling, pronouncing that word as if he meant 
a necessary fixture in an English stable. " 111 fo manger. That's 
the French saying, and mangering is as necessary to me as it is to a 
Frenchman. Or more so." 

Mr. Smallweed is decidedly of opinion " much more so." 

"If any man had told me," pursues Jobling, "even so lately as 
when you and I had the frisk down in Lincolnshire, Guppy, and 
drove over to see that house at Castle Wold " 

Mr. Smallweed corrects him — Chesney Wold. 

" Chesnfey Wold. (I thank my honourable friend for that cheer.) 
If any man had told me, then, that I should be as hard up at the 
present time as I literally find myself, I should have — well, I 
should have pitched into him," says Mr. Jobling, taking a little 
rum-and- water with an air of desperate resignation ; "I should 
have let fly at his head." 

" Still, Tony, you were on the wrong side of the post then," 
remonstrates Mr. Guppy. " You were talking about nothing else 
in the gig." 



260 BLEAK HOUSE. 

" Guppy," says Mr. Jobling, " I will not deny it. I was on the 
wrong side of the post. But I trusted to things coming round." 

That very popular trust in flat things coming round ! Not in 
their being beaten round, or worked round, but in their " coming " 
round ! As though a lunatic should trust in the world's " coming " 
triangular ! 

" I had confident expectations that things would come round and 
be all square," says Mr. Jobling, with some vagueness of expres- 
sion, and perhaps of meaning, too. '"But I was disappointed. 
They never did. And when it came to creditors making rows at 
the ofiice, and to people that the office dealt Avith making com-j 
plaints about dirty trifles of borrowed money, why there was ai 
end of that connection. And of any new professional connectio: 
too ; for if I was to give a reference to-morrow, it would be me: 
tioned, and would sew me up. Then, what's a fellow to do 1 
have been keeping out of the way, and living cheap, down abou] 
the market-gardens ; but what's the use of living cheap when yoi 
have got no money 1 You might as well live dear, 

" Better," Mr. Small weed thinks. 

" Certainly. It's the fashionable way ; and fashion and whiskers 
have been my weaknesses, and I don't care who knows it," says 
Mr. Jobling. "They are great weaknesses — Damme, sir, they 
are great. Well ! " proceeds Mr. Jobling, after a defiant visit to 
his rum-and-water, "what can a feUow do, I ask you, hut enlist?" 

Mr. Guppy comes more fully into the conversation, to state 
what, in his opinion, a fellow can do. His manner is the gravely 
impressive manner of a man who has not committed himself in 
life, otherwise than as he has become the victim of a tender sorrow 
of the heart 

"Jobling," says Mr. Guppy, "myself and our mutual frieni 
Smallweed 

(Mr. Smallweed modestly observes " Gentlemen both ! " and 
drinks.) 

" Have had a little conversation on this matter more than once 
since you • 



w 

I 



" Say, got the sack ! " cries Mr. Jobling, bitterly. " Say 
Guppy. You mean it." 

" N-o-o ! Left the Inn," Mr. Smallweed delicately suggests. 

"Since you left the Inn, Jobling," says Mr. Guppy; "and 
have mentioned, to our mutual friend Smallweed, a plan I have 
lately thought of proposing. You know Snagsby the stationer 1 " 

" I know there is such a stationer," returns Mr. Jobling. " He 
was not ours, and I am not acquainted with him." 

" He is ours, Jobling, and I am acquainted with him," Mr. i 



BLEAK HOUSE. 261 

Guppy retorts. " Well, sir ! I have lately become better ac- 
quainted with him, through some accidental circumstances that 
have made me a visitor of his in private life. Those circumstances 
it is not necessary to offer in argument. They may — or they may 
not — have some reference to a subject, which may — or may not 
— have cast its shadow on my existence." 

As it is Mr. Guppy's perplexing way, with boastful misery to 
tempt his particular friends into this subject, and the moment they 
touch it, to turn on them with that trenchant severity about the 
chords in the human mind ; both Mr. Jobling and Mr. Smallweed 
decline the pitfall, by retnaining silent. 

"Such things may be," repeats Mr. Guppy, "or they may not 
be. They are no part of the case. It is enough to mention, that 
both Mr. and Mrs. Snagsby are very willing to oblige me ; and that 
Snagsby has, in busy times, a good deal of copying work to give out. 
He has all Tulkinghorn's, and an excellent business besides. I 
believe, if our mutual friend Smallweed were put into the box, he 
could prove this 1 " 

Mr. Smallweed nods, and appears greedy to be sworn. 

" Now, gentlemen of the jury," says Mr. Guppy, " — I mean, 
now Jobling — you may say this is a poor prospect of a living. 
Granted. But it's better than nothing, and better than enlist- 
ment. You want time. There must be time for these late affairs 
to blow over. You might live through it on much worse terms 
than by writing for Snagsby." 

Mr. Jobling is about to interrupt, when the sagacious Smallweed 
checks him with a dry cough, and the words, " Hem ! Shaks- 
peare ! " 

"There are two branches to this subject, Jobling," says Mr. 
Guppy. " That is the first. I come to the second. You know 
Krook, the Chancellor, across the lane. Come, Jobling," says Mr. 
Guppy, in his encouraging cross-examination-tone, " I think you 
know Krook, the Chancellor, across the lane ? " 

" I know him by sight," says Mr. Jobling. 

" You know him by sight. Very well. And you know little 
Flite?" 

"Eveiybody knows her," says Mr. Jobling. 

" Everybody knows her. Ver^/ well. Now it has been one of 
my duties of late, to pay Flite a certain weekly allowance, deduct- 
ing from it the amount of her weekly rent : which I have paid (in 
consequence of instructions I have received) to Krook himself, regu- 
larly, in her presence. This has brought me into communication 
with Krook, and into a knowledge of his house and his habits. I 
know he has a room to let. You may live there, at a very low 



262 BLEAK HOUSE. 

charge, under any name you like ; as quietly as if you were a hun- 
dred miles off. He'll ask no questions ; and would accept you as 
a tenant, at a word from me — before the clock strikes, if you 
chose. And I'll tell you another thing, Jobling," says Mr. Guppy, 
who has suddenly lowered his voice, and become familiar again, 
" he's an extraordinary old chap — always rummaging among a 
litter of papers, and grubbing away at teaching himself to read and 
write ; without getting on a bit, as it seems to me. He is a most 
extraordinaiy old chap, sir. I don't know but what it might be 
worth a fellow's while to look him up a bit." 

" You don't mean ? " Mr. Joblin^ begins. 

"I mean," returns Mr. Guppy, shrugging his shoulders with 
becoming modesty, " that / can't make him out. I appeal to our 
mutual friend Smallweed, whether he has or has not heard me 
remark, that I can't make him out." 

Mr. Smallweed bears the concise testimony, " A few ! " 

" I have seen something of the profession, and something of life, 
Tony," says Mr. Guppy, " and it's seldom I can't make a man out, 
more or less. But such an old card as this ; so deep, so sly, and 
secret (though I don't believe he is ever sober) ; I never came across. 
Now, he must be precious old, you know, and he has not a soul 
about him, and he is reported to be immensely rich ; and whether 
he is a smuggler, or a receiver, or an unlicensed pawnbroker, or a 
money-lender — all of which I have thought likely at different 
times — it might pay you to knock up a sort of knowledge of him. I 
don't see why you shouldn't go in for it, when everything else suits." 

Mr. Jobling, Mr. Guppy, and Mr. Smallweed, all lean their 
elbows on the table, and their chins upon their hands, and look at 
the ceiling. After a. time, they all drink, slowly lean back, put 
their hands in their pockets, and look at one another. 

" If I had the energy I once possessed, Tony ! " says Mr. Guppy, 
with a sigh. " But there are chords in the human mind " 

Expressing the remainder of the desolate sentiment in rum-and- 
water, Mr. Guppy concludes by resigning the adventure to Tony 
Jobling, and informing him that, during the vacation and while 
things are slack, his purse, " as far as three or four or even five 
pound goes," will be at his disposal. "For never shall it be said," 
Mr. Guppy adds with emphasis, " that William Guppy turned his 
back upon his friend ! " 

The latter part of the proposal is so directly to the purpose, 
that Mr. Jobling says with emotion, " Guppy, my trump, your 
fist ! " Mr. Guppy presents it, saying, " Jobling, my boy, there 
it is ! " Mr. Jobling returns, " Guppy, we have been pals now 
for some years ! " Mr. Guppy replies, " Jobling, we have." They 



BLEAK HOUSE. 263 

then shake hands, and Mr. Jobling adds in a feeling manner, 
" Thank you, Guppy, I don't know but what I will take another 
glass, for old acquaintance sake." 

"Krook's last lodger died there," observes Mr. Guppy, in an 
incidental way. 

" Did he though ! " says Mr. Jobling. 

" There was a verdict. Accidental death. You don't mind 
that?" 

"No," says Mr. Jobling, "I don't mind it; but he might as 
well have died somewhere else. It's devilish odd that he need go 
and die at my place ! " Mr. Jobling quite resents this liberty ; 
several times returning to it with such remarks as, " There are 
places enough to die in, I should think ! " or, " He wouldn't have 
liked my dying at his place, I dare say ! " 

However, the compact being virtually made, Mr. Guppy proposes 
to dispatch the trusty Smallweed to ascertain if Mr. Krook is at 
home, as in that case they may complete the negotiation without 
delay. Mr. Jobling approving, Smallweed puts himself under the 
tall hat and conveys it out of the dining-rooms in the Guppy man- 
ner. He soon returns with the intelligence that Mr. Krook is at 
home, and that he has seen him through the shop-door, sitting in 
his back premises, sleeping, " like one o'clock." 

" Then I'll pay," says Mr. Guppy, " and we'll go and see him. 
Small, what will it be ? " 

Mr. Smallweed, compelling the attendance of the waitress with 
one hitch of his eyelash, instantly replies as follows : " Four veals 
and hams is three, and four potatoes is three and four, and one 
summer cabbage is three and six, and three marrows is four and 
six, and six breads is five, and three Cheshires is five and three, 
and four pints of half-and-half is six and three, and four smaU 
rums is eight and three, and three Pollys is eight and six. Eight 
and six in half a sovereign, Polly, and eighteenpence out ! " 

Not at all excited by these stupendous calculations, Smallweed 
dismisses his friends with a cool nod, and remains behind to take 
a little admiring notice of Polly, as opportunity may serve, and to 
read the daily papers : which are so very large in proportion to 
himself, shorn of his liat, that when he holds up The Times to run 
his eye over the columns, he seems to have retired for the night, 
and to have disappeared under the bedclothes. 

Mr. Guppy and Mr. Jobling repair to the rag and bottle shop, 
where they find Krook still sleeping like one o'clock ; that is to 
say, breathing stertorously with his chin upon his breast, and quite 
insensible to any external sounds, or even to gentle shaking. On 
the table beside him, among the usual lumber, stand an empty gin- 



264 BLEAK HOUSE. 






bottle and a glass. The unwholesome air is so stained with this 
liquor, that even the green eyes of the cat upon her shelf, as they 
open and shut and glimmer on the visitors, look drunk. 

" Hold up here ! " says Mr. Guppy, giving the relaxed figure of 
the old man another shake. "Mr. Krook ! Halloa, sir ! " 

But it would seem as easy to wake a bundle of old clothes, with 
a spirituous heat smouldering in it. " Did you ever see such a 
stupor as he falls into, between drink and sleep?" says Mr. Guppy. 

"If this is his regular sleep," returns Jobling, rather alarmed, 
" it'll last a long time one of these days, I am thinking." 

"It's always more like a fit than a nap," says Mr. Guppy, shak- 
ing him again. " Halloa, your lordship ! Why, he might be 
robbed, fifty times over ! Open your eyes ! " 

After much ado, he opens them, but without appearing to see 
his visitors, or any other objects. Though he crosses one leg on 
another, and folds his hands, and several times closes and opens 
his parched lips, he seems to all intents and purposes as insensible 
as before. 

" He is alive, at any rate," says Mr. Guppy. "How are you, 
my Lord Chancellor. I have brought a friend of mine, sir, on a 
little matter of business." 

The old man still sits, often smacking his dry lips, without the 
least consciousness. After some minutes, he makes an attempt to 
rise. They help him up, and he staggers against the wall, and 
stares at them. 

"How do you do, Mr. Krook?" says Mr. Guppy, in some dis- 
comfiture. " How do you do, sir 1 You are looking charming, 
Mr. Krook. I hope you are pretty well ? " 

The old man, in aiming a purposeless blow at Mr. Guppy, or at 
nothing, feebly swings laimself round, and comes with his face 
against the wall. So he remains for a minute or two, heaped up 
against it ; and then staggers down the shop to the front door. 
The air, the movement in the court, the lapse of time, or the com- 
bination of these things, recovers him. He comes back pretty 
steadily, adjusting his fur-cap on his head, and looking keenly at 
them. 

"Your servant, gentlemen; I've been dozing. Hi! I am hard 
to wake, odd times." 

" Rather so, indeed, sir," responds Mr. Guppy. 

" What ? You've been a trying to do it, have you ? " says the 
suspicious Krook. 

" Only a httle," Mr. Guppy explains. 

The old man's eye resting on the empty bottle, he takes it up, 
examines it, and slowly tilts it upside down. ■ 



BLExVK HOUSE. 266 

" I say ! " he cries, like the Hobgoblin in the story. " Some- 
body's been making free here ! " 

" I assure you we found it so," says Mr. Guppy. "Would you 
allow me to get it filled for you ? " 

"Yes, certainly I would!" cries Krook, in high glee. "Cer- 
tainly I would ! Don't mention it ! Get it filled next door — 
Sol's Arms — the Lord Chancellor's fourteenpenny. Bless you, 
they know me I " 

He so presses the empty bottle upon Mr. Guppy, that that 
gentleman, with a nod to his friend, accepts the trust, and hurries 
out and hurries in again with the bottle filled. The old man 
receives it in his arms like a beloved grandchild, and pats it 
tenderly. 

" But, I say ! " he whispers, with his eyes screwed up, after 
tasting it, " this ain't the Lord Chancellor's fourteenpenny. This 
is eighteenpenny ! " 

" I thought you might like that better," says Mr. Guppy. 

"You're a nobleman, sir," returns Krook, with another taste ^ — 
and his hot breath seems to come towards them like a flame. 
"You're a baron of the land." 

Taking advantage of this auspicious moment, Mr. Guppy pre- 
sents his friend under the impromptu name of Mr. Weevle, and 
states the object of their visit. Krook, with his bottle under his 
arm (he never gets beyond a certain point of either drunkenness or 
sobriety), takes time to survey his proposed lodger, and seems to 
approve of him. " You'd like to see the room, young man 1 " he 
says. " Ah ! It's a good room ! Been whitewashed. Been cleaned 
down with soft soap and soda. Hi ! It's worth twice the rent ; 
letting alone my company when you want it, and such a cat to 
keep the mice away." 

Commending the room after this manner, the old man takes 

: them upstairs, where indeed they do find it cleaner than it used 

i to be, and also containing some old articles of furniture which he 

has dug up from his inexhaustible stores. The terms are easily 

concluded — for the Lord Chancellor cannot be hard on Mr. Guppy, 

associated as he is with Kenge and Carboy, Jarndyce and Jarndyce, 

I and other famous claims on his professional consideration — and it 

is agreed that Mr. Weevle shall take possession on the morrow. 

^ Mr. Weevle and Mr. Guppy then repair to Cook's Court, Cursitor 

Street, where the personal introduction of the former to Mr. 

Snagsby is efiected, and (more important) the vote and interest 

of Mrs. Snagsby are secured. They then report progress to the 

eminent Smallweed, waiting at the office in his tall hat for that 

purpose, and separate ; Mr. Guppy explaining that he would tenni- 



266 BLEAK HOUSE. 

nate his little entertainment by standing treat at the play, but that 
there are chords in the human mind which would render it a hol- 
low mockery. 

On the morrow, in the dusk of evening, Mr. Weevle modestly 
appears at Krook's, by no means incommoded with luggage, and 
establishes himself in his new lodging ; where the two eyes in the 
shutters stare at him in his sleep, as if they were full of wonder. 
On the following day Mr. Weevle, who is a handy good-for-nothing 
kind of young fellow, borrows a needle and thread of Miss Flite, 
and a hammer of his landlord, and goes to work devising apologies 
for window-curtains, and knocking up apologies for shelves, and 
hanging up his two teacups, milkpot, and crockery sundries on a 
pennyworth of little hooks, like a shipwrecked sailor making the 
best of it. 

But what Mr. Weevle prizes most, of all his few possessions 
(next after his light whiskers, for which he has an attachment that 
only whiskers can awaken in the breast of man), is a choice collec- 
tion of copper-plate impressions from that truly national work. The 
Divinities of Albion, or Galaxy Gallery of British Beauty, repre- 
senting ladies of title and fashion in every variety of smirk that 
art, combined with capital, is capable of producing. With these 
magnificent portraits, unworthily confined in a band-box during his 
seclusion among the market-gardens, he decorates his apartment^ 
and as the Galaxy Gallery of British Beauty wears every variety 
of fancy-dress, plays every variety of musical instrument, fondles 
every variety of dog, ogles every variety of prospect, and is backed 
up by every variety of flower-pot and balustrade, the result is very 
imposing. 

But, fashion is Mr. Weevle's, as it was Tony Jobling's weakness. 
To borrow yesterday's paper from the Sol's Arms of an evening, 
and read about the brilliant and distinguished meteors that are 
shooting across the fashionable sky in every direction, is unspeak- 
able consolation to him. To know what member of what brilliant 
and distinguished circle accomplished the brilliant and distinguished 
feat of joining it yesterday, or contemplates the no less brilliant 
and distinguished feat of leaving it to-morrow, gives him a thrill 
of joy. To be informed what the Galaxy Gallery of British Beauty 
is about, and means to be about, and what Galaxy marriages are 
on the tapis, and what Galaxy rumours are in circulation, is to 
become acquainted with the most glorious destinies of mankind. 
Mr. Weevle reverts from this intelligence, to the Galaxy portraits 
implicated ; and seems to know the originals, and to be known of 
them. j 

For the rest he is a quiet lodger, full of handy shifts and devicesl 



BLP:AK house. 267 

as before mentioned, able to cook and clean for himself as well as 
to carpenter, and developing social inclinations after the shades of 
evening have fallen on the court. At those times, when he is not 
visited by Mr. Guppy, or by a small light in his likeness quenched 
in a dark hat, he comes out of his dull room — where he has inher- 
ited the deal wilderness of desk bespattered with a rain of ink — 
and talks to Krook, or is "very free," as they call it in the court, 
commendingly, with any one disposed for conversation. Wherefore, 
Mrs. Piper, who leads the court, is impelled to offer two remarks 
to Mrs. Perkins : Firstly, that if her Johnny was to have whiskers, 
she could wish 'em to be identically like that young man's ; and 
secondly, Mark my words, Mrs. Perkins, ma'am, and don't you be 
surprised Lord bless you, if that young man comes in at last for 
old Krook's money ! 



CHAPTER XXI. 

THE SMALLWEED FAMILY. 

In a rather ill-favoured and ill-savoured neighbourhood, though 
one of its rising grounds bears the name of Mount Pleasant, the 
Elfin Smallweed, christened Bartholomew, and known on the domes- 
tic hearth as Bart, passes that limited portion of his time on which 
the office and its contingencies have no claim. He dwells in a little 
narrow street, always solitary, shady, and sad, closely bricked in 
on all sides like a tomb, but where there yet lingers the stump of 
an old forest tree, whose flavour is about as fresh and natural as 
the Smallweed smack of youth. 

There has been only one child in the Smallweed family for 
several generations. Little old men and women there have been, 
but no child, until Mr. Smallweed's grandmother, now living, 
became weak in her intellect, and fell (for the first time) into a 
childish state. AVith such infantine graces as a total want of 
observation, memoiy, understanding and interest, and an eternal 
disposition to fall asleep over the fire and into it, Mr. Smallweed's 
grandmother has undoubtedly brightened the family. 

Mr. Smallweed's grandfather is likewise of the party. He is in 
a helpless condition as to his lower, and nearly so as to his upper, 
limbs ; but his mind is unimpaired. It holds, as well as it ever 
held, the first four rules of arithmetic, and a certain small collection 
of the hardest facts. In respect of ideality, reverence, wonder, 
and other such phrenological attributes, it is no worse off than it 



268 BLEAK HOUSE. 

used to be. Everything that Mr. Smallweed's grandfather ever put 
away in his mind was a grub at first, and is a grub at last. In all 
his life he has never bred a single butterfly. 

The father of this pleasant grandfather, of the neighbourhood of 
Mount Pleasant, was a homy-skinned, two-legged, money-getting 
species of spider, who spun webs to catch unwary flies, and retired 
into holes until they were entrapped. The name of this old pagan's 
God was Compound Interest. He lived for it, married it, died of 
it. Meeting with a heavy loss in an honest little enterprise in 
which all the loss was intended to have been on the other side, he 
broke something — something necessary to his existence ; therefore 
it couldn't have been his heart — and made an end of his career. 
As his character was not good, and he had been bred at a Charity 
School, in a complete course, according to question and answer, of 
those ancient people the Amorites and Hittites, he was frequently 
quoted as an example of the failure of education. 

His spirit shone through his son, to whom he had always 
preached of " going out " early in life, and whom he made a clerk in 
a sharp scrivener's office at twelve years old. There, the young 
gentleman improved his mind, which was of a lean and anxious 
character ; and, developing the family gifts, gradually elevated him- 
self into the discounting profession. Going out early in life, and 
marrying late, as his father had done before him, he too begat a 
lean and anxious-minded son ; who, in his turn, going out early in 
life and marrying late, became the father of Bartholomew and 
Judith Smallweed, twins. During the whole time consumed in 
the slow growth of this family tree, the house of Smallweed, always 
early to go out and late to marry, has strengthened itself in its 
practical character, has discarded all amusements, discountenanced 
all story-books, fairy tales, fictions, and fables, and banished all 
levities whatsoever. Hence the gratifying fact, that it has had no 
child born to[it, and that the complete little men and women whom 
it has produced, have been observed to bear a likeness to old mon- 
keys with something depressing on their minds. 

At the present time, in the dark little parlour certain feet below 
the level of the street — a grim, hard, uncouth parlour, only orna- 
mented with the coarsest of baize table-covers, and the hardest of 
sheet-iron tea-trays, and offering in its decorative character no bad 
allegorical representation of Grandfather Smallweed's mind — 
seated in two black horse-hair porter's chairs, one on each side of 
the fire-place, the superannuated Mr. and Mrs. Smallweed wile 
away the rosy hours. On the stove are a couple of trivets for 
the pots and kettles which it is Grandfather Smallweed's usual 
occupation to watch, and projecting from the chimney-piece between 



BLEAK HOUSE. 269 

them is a sort of brass gallows for roasting, which he also superin- 
tends when it is in action. Under the venerable Mr. Smallweed's 
seat, and guarded by his spindle legs, is a drawer in his chair, re- 
ported to contain property to a fabulous amount. Beside him is a 
spare cushion, with which he is always provided, in order that he 
may have something to throw at the venerable partner of his 
respected age whenever she makes an allusion to money — • a subject 
on which he is particularly sensitive. 

" And Where's Bart ? " Grandfather Smallweed inquires of Judy, 
Bart's twin-sister. 

"He an't come in yet," says Judy. 

"It's his tea-time, isn't it?" 

"No." 

" How much do you mean to say it wants then ? " 

" Ten minutes." 

"Hey?" 

" Ten minutes." — (Loud on the part of Judy.) 

" Ho ! " says Grandfather Smallweed. " Ten minutes." 

Grandmother Smallweed, who has been mumbling and shaking 
her head at the trivets, hearing figures mentioned, connects them 
with money, and screeches, like a horrible old parrot without any 
plumage, " Ten ten-pound notes ! " 

Grandfather Smallweed immediately throws the cushion at her. 

" Drat you, be quiet ! " says the good old man. 

The effect of this act of jaculation is twofold. It not only 
doubles up Mrs. Smallweed's head against the side of her porter's 
chair, and causes her to present, when extricated by her grand- 
daughter, a highly unbecoming state of cap, but the necessary 
exertion recoils on Mr. Smallweed himself, whom it throws back 
into his porter's chair, like a broken puppet. The excellent old 
gentleman being, at these times, a mere clothes-bag with a black 
skull-cap on the top of it, does not present a very animated appear- 
ance, until he has undergone the two operations at the hands of his 
grand-daughter, of being shaken up like a great bottle, and poked 
and punched like a great bolster. Some indication of a neck being 
developed in him by these means, he and the sharer of his life's 
evening again sit fronting one another in their two porter's chairs, 
like a couple of sentinels long forgotten on their post by the Black 
Serjeant, Death. 

Judy the twin is worthy company for these associates. She is 
so indubitably sister to Mr. Smallweed the younger, that the two 
kneaded into one would hardly make a young person of average 
proportions ; while she so happily exemplifies the before-mentioned 
family likeness to the monkey tribe, that, attired in a spangled 



270 BLEAK HOUSE. 



/ 



robe and cap, she might walk about the table-land on the top of a 
barrel-organ without exciting much remark as an unusual specimen. 
Under existing circumstances, however, she is dressed in a plain, 
spare gown of brown stuff. 

Judy never owned a doll, never heard of Cinderella, never played 
at any game. She once or twice fell into children's company when 
she was about ten years old, but the children couldn't get on with 
Judy, and Judy couldn't get on with them. She seemed like an 
animal of another species, and there was instinctive repugnance on 
both sides. It is very doubtful whether Judy knows how to laugh. 
She has so rarely seen the thing done, that the probabilities are 
strong the other way. Of anything like a youthful laugh, she cer- 
tainly can have no conception. If she were to try one, she would 
find her teeth in her way ; modelling that action of her face, as 
she has unconsciously modelled all its other expressions, on her 
pattern of sordid age. Such is Judy. 

And her twin brother couldn't wind up a top for his life. He 
knows no more of Jack the Giant Killer, or of Sinbad the Sailpr, 
than he knows of the people in the stars. He could as soon pl&y 
at leap-frog, or at cricket, as change into a cricket or a frog hiiQ- 
self. But, he is so much the better off than his sister, that on his 
narrow world of fact an opening has dawned, into such broadeir 
regions as lie within the ken of Mr. Guppy. Hence, his admiraiv 
tion and his emulation of that shining enchanter. 1 

Judy, with a gong-like clash and clatter, sets one of the sheet- 
iron tea-trays on the table, and arranges cups and saucers. The 
bread she puts on in an iron basket ; and the butter (and not much 
of it) in a small pewter plate. Grandfather Smallweed looks hard 
after the tea as it is served out, and asks Judy where the girl is ? 

" Charley, do you mean ? " says Judy. 

" Hey 1 " from Grandfather Smallweed. 

"Charley, do you mean?" 

This touches a spring in Grandmother Smallweed, who, chuck- 
ling, as usual, at the trivets, cries — " Over the water ! Charley 
over the water, Charley over the water, over the water to Charley, 
Charley over the water, over the water to Charley ! " and becomes 
quite energetic about it. Grandfather looks at the cushion, but 
has not sufficiently recovered his late exertion. 

" Ha ! " he says, when there is silence — - " if that's her name. 
She eats a deal. It would be better to allow her for her keep." 

Judy, with her brother's wink, shakes her head, and purses up 
her mouth into No, without saying it. 

" No ? " returns the old man. " Why not ? " 

" She'd want sixpence a day, and we can do it for less," says Judy. 



BLEAK HOUSE. 2?1 

"Sure?" 

Judy answers with a nod of deepest meaning, and calls, as she 
scrapes the butter on the loaf with every precaution against waste, 
and cuts it into slices, " You Charley, where are you 1 " Timidly 
obedient to the summons, a little girl in a rough apron and a large 
bonnet, with her hands covered with soap and water, and a scrub- 
bing brush in one of them, appears, and curtseys. 

" What work are you about now ? " says Judy, making an ancient 
snap at her, like a very sharp old beldame. 

" I'm a cleaning the up-stairs back room, miss," replies Charley. 

" Mind you do it thoroughly, and don't loiter. Shirking won't 
dc for me. Make haste ! Go along ! " cries Judy, with a stamp 
upon the ground. " You girls are more trouble than you're worth, 
b7 half." 

On this severe matron, as she returns to her task of scraping the 
b-itter and cutting the bread, falls the shadow of her brother, look- 
iig in at the window. For whom, knife and loaf in hand, she opens 
the street-door. 

■ " Ay, ay, Bart ! " says Grandfather Smallweed. " Here you are, 
ley?" 

" Here I am," says Bart. 

" Been along with your friend again, Bart 1 " ^ 

Small nods. 

" Dining at his expense, Bart 1" 

Small nods again. 

" That's right. Live at his expense as much as you can, and 
take warning by his foolish example. That's the use of such a 
friend. The only use you can put him to," says the venerable sage. 

His grandson, without receiving this good counsel as dutifully as 
he might, honours it with all such acceptance as may lie in a slight 
wink and a nod, and takes a chair at the tea-table. The four old 
faces then hover over teacups, like a company of ghastly cherubim ; 
Mrs. Smallweed perpetually twitching her head and chattering at 
the trivets, and Mr. Smallweed requiring to be repeatedly shaken 
up like a large black draught. 

"Yes, yes," says the good old gentleman, reverting to his lesson 
of wisdom. " That's such advice as your father would have given 
you, Bart. You never saw your father. More's the pity. He was 
my true son." Whether it is intended to be conveyed that he was 
particularly pleasant to look at, on that account, does not appear. 

" He was my true son," repeats the old gentleman, folding his 
bread-and-butter on his knee ; " a good accountant, and died fifteen 
years ago." 

Mrs. Smallweed, following her usual instinct, breaks out with 



272 BLEAK HOUSE. 

" Fifteen hundred pound. Fifteen hundred i)Ound in a black box, 
fifteen hundred pound locked up, fifteen hundred pound put away 
and hid ! " Her worthy husband, setting aside his bread-and-butter, 
immediately discharges the cushion at her, crushes her against the 
side of her chair, and falls back in his own, overpowered. His 
appearance, after visiting Mrs. Smallweed with one of these admo- 
nitions, is particularly impressive and not wholly prepossessing : 
firstly, because the exertion generally twists his black skull-cap 
over one eye and gives him an air of goblin rakishuess ; secondly, 
because he mutters violent imprecations against Mrs. Smallweed ; 
and thirdly, because the contrast between those powerful expres- 
sions and his powerless figure is suggestive of a baleful old malig- 
nant, who would be very wicked if he could. All this, however, 
is so common in the Smallweed family circle, that it produces lo 
impression. The old gentleman is merely shaken, and has his in- 
ternal feathers beaten up ; the cushion is restored to its usual plate 
beside him ; and the old lady, perhaps with her cap adjusted, aid 
perhaps not, is planted in her chair again, ready to be bowled dowti 
like a niuepin. 

Some time elapses, in the present instance, before the old gentle- 
man is sufiiciently cool to resume his discourse ; and even then hfi 
mixes it up with several edifying expletives addressed to the uncon4 
scious partner of his bosom, who holds communication with nothing\ 
on earth but the trivets. As thus : 

"If your father, Bart, had lived longer, he might have been 
worth a deal of money — you brimstone chatterer ! — but just as 
he was beginning to build up the house that he had been making 
the foundations for, through many a year — you jade of a magpie, 
jackdaw, and poll-parrot, what do you mean ! — he took ill and died 
of a low fever, always being a sparing and a spare man, full of busi- 
ness care — I should like to throw a cat at you instead of a cushion, 
and I will too if you make such a confounded fool of yourself ! — 
and your mother, who was a prudent woman as dry as a chip, just 
dwindled away like touchwood after you and Judy were born. — You 
are an old pig. You are a brimstone pig. You're a head of swine ! " 

Judy, not interested in what she has often heard, begins to collect 
in a basin various tributary streams of tea, from the bottoms of 
cups and saucers and from the bottom of the teapot, for the little 
charwoman's evening meal. In like manner she gets together, in 
the iron bread-basket, as many outside fragments and worn-down 
heels of loaves as the rigid economy of the house has left in existence. 

" But, your father and me were partners, Bart," says the old gen- 
tleman ; " and when I am gone, you and Judy will have all there 
is. It's rare for you both, that you went out early in life — Judy 



BLEAK HOUSE. 273 

to the flower business, and you to the law. You won't want to 
spend it. You'll get your living without it, and put more to it. 
When I am gone, Judy will go back to the flower business, and 
you'll still stick to the law." 

One might infer, from Judy's appearance, that her business rather 
lay with, the thorns than the flowers ; but, she has, in her time, 
been apprenticed to the art and mystery of artificial flower-making. 
A close observer might perhaps detect both in her eye and her 
brother's, when their venerable grandsire anticipates his being gone, 
some little impatience to know when he may be going, and some 
resentful opinion that it is time he went. 

" Now, if everybody has done," says Judy, completing her prepara- 
tions, " I'll have that girl in to her tea. She would never leave 
off", if she took it by herself in the kitchen." 

Charley is accordingly introduced, and, under a heavy fire of eyes, 
sits down to her basin and a Druidical ruin of bread-and-butter. 
In the active superintendence of this young person, Judy Small- 
weed appears to attain a perfectly geological age, and to date from 
the remotest periods. Her systematic manner of flying at her and 
pouncing on her, with or without pretence, whether or no, is won- 
derful ; evincing an accomplishment in the art of girl-driving, seldom 
reached by the oldest practitioners. 

"Now, don't stare about you all the afternoon," cries Judy, 
shaking her head and stamping her foot as she happens to catch 
the glance which has been pre\'iously sounding the basin of tea, 
"but take your victuals and get back to your work." 

" Yes, miss," says Charley. 

"Don't say yes," returns Miss Smallweed, "for I know what 
you girls are. Do it without saying it, and then I may begin to 
believe you." 

Charley swallows a great gulp of tea in token of submission, and 
so disperses the Druidical ruins that Miss Smallweed charges her 
not to gormandise, which "in you girls," she observes, is disgust- 
ing. Charley might find some more difficulty in meeting her 
views on the general subject of girls, but for a knock at the door. 

" See who it is, and don't chew when you open it ! " cries 
Judy. 

The object of her attentions withdrawing for the purpose, Miss 
Smallweed takes that opportunity of jumbling the remainder of 
the bread-and-butter together, and launching two or three dirty 
teacups into the ebb-tide of the basin of tea ; as a hint that she 
considers the eating and drinking terminated. 

" Now ! Who is it, and what's wanted ? " says the snappish 
Judy. 



_^x 




BLEAK HOUSE. 275 

It is one "Mr. George," it appears. Without other announce- 
ment or ceremony, Mr. George walks in. 

" Whew ! " says Mr. George. " You are hot here. Always a 
fire, eh ? Well ! Perhaps you do right to get used to one." Mr. 
George makes the latter remark to himself, as he nods to Grand- 
father Smallweed. 

"Ho! It's you!" cries the old gentleman. "How de do? 
How de do 1 " 

" Middling," replies Mr. George, taking a chair. "Your grand- 
daughter I have had the honour of seeing before ; my service to 
you, miss." 

"This is my grandson," says Grandfather Smallweed. "You 
ha'n't seen him before. He is in the law, and not much at home." 

" My service to him, too ! He is like his sister. He is very 
like his sister. He is devilish like his sister," says Mr. George, 
laying a great and not altogether complimentary stress on his last 
adjective. 

" And how does the world use you, Mr. George 1 " Grandfather 
Smallweed inquires, slowly rubbing his legs. 

" Pretty much as usual. Like a football." 

He is a swarthy browned man of fifty ; well-made, and good-look- 
ing ; with cris]) dark hair, bright eyes, and a broad chest. His 
sinewy and powerful hands, as sunburnt as his face, have evidently 
been used to a pretty rough life. What is curious about him is, 
that he sits forward on his chair as if he were, from long habit, 
allowing space for some dress or accoutrements that he has alto- 
gether laid aside. His step too is measured and heavy, and would 
go well with a weighty clash and jingle of spurs. He is close- 
shaved now, but his mouth is set as if his upper lip had been for 
years familiar with a great moustache ; and his manner of occa- 
sionally laying the open palm of his broad brown hand upon it, is 
to the same effect. Altogether, one might guess Mr. George to 
have been a trooper once upon a time. 

A special contrast Mr. George makes to the Smallweed family. 
Trooper was never yet billeted upon a household more unlike him. 
It is a broadsword to an oyster-knife. His developed figure, and 
their stunted forms ; his large manner, filling any amount of room, 
and their little narrow pinched ways ; his sounding voice, and their 
sharp spare tones ; are in the strongest and the strangest opposi- 
tion. As he sits in the middle of the grim parlour, leaning a little 
forward, with his hands upon his thighs and his elbows squared, 
he looks as though, if he remained there long, he would absorb 
into himself the whole family and the whole four-roomed house, 
extra little back-kitchen and all. 



276 BLEAK HOUSE. 

" Do you rub your legs to rub life into 'em ? " he asks of Grand- 
father Smallweed, after looking round the room. 

"Why, it's partly a habit, Mr. George, and — yes — it partly 
helps the circulation," he replies. 

" The cir-cu-la-tion ! " repeats Mr. George, folding his arms upon 
his chest, and seeming to become two sizes larger. " Not much 
of that, I should think." 

" Truly, I'm old, Mr. George," says Grandfather Smallweed. 
" But I can carry my years. I'm older than Aer," nodding at his 
wife, " and see what she is ! — You're a brimstone chatterer ! " 
with a sudden revival of his late hostility. 

" Unlucky old soul ! " says Mr. George, turning his head in that 
direction. "Don't scold the old lady. Look at her here, with 
her poor cap half off her head, and her poor hair all in a muddle. 
Hold up, ma'am. That's better. There we are ! Think of your 
mother, Mr. Smallweed," says Mr. George, coming back to his seat 
from assisting her, "if your wife an't enough." 

" I suppose you were an excellent son, Mr. George," the old 
man hints, with a leer. 

The colour of Mr. George's face rather deepens, as he replies : 
" Why, no. I wasn't." 

" I am astonished at it." 

"So am I. I ought to have been a good son, and I think I 
meant to have been one. But I wasn't. I was a thundering bad 
son, that's the long and the short of it, and never was a credit to 
anybody." 

" Surprising ! " cries the old man. 

"However," Mr. George resumes, "the less said about it, the 
better now. Come ! You know the agreement. Always a pipe 
out of the two months' interest ! (Bosh ! It's all correct. You 
needn't be afraid to order the pipe. Here's the new bill, and here's 
the two months' interest-money, and a devil-and-all of a scrape it 
is to get it together in my business)." 

Mr. George sits, with his arms folded, consuming the family and 
the parlour, while Grandfather Smallweed is assisted by Judy to 
two black leathern cases out of a locked bureau ; in one of which 
he secures the document he has just received, and from the other 
takes another similar document which he hands to Mr. George, 
who twists it up for a pipe-light. As the old man inspects, through 
his glasses, every up-stroke and down-stroke of both documents, 
before he releases them from their leathern prison ; and as he 
counts the money three times over, and requires Judy to say every 
word she utters at least twice, and is as tremulously slow of speech 
and action as it is possible to be ; this business is a long time in 



BLEAK HOUSE. 277 

progress. When it is quite concluded, and not before, he disen- 
gages his ravenous eyes and fingers from it, and answers Mr. 
George's last remark by saying, "Afraid to order the pipe? We 
are not so mercenary as that, sir. Judy, see directly to the pipe 
and the glass of cold brandy-and- water for Mr. George." 

The sportive twins, who have been looking straight before them 
all this time, except when they have been engrossed by the black 
leathern cases, retire together, generally disdainful of the visitor, 
but leaving him to the old man, as two young cubs might leave a 
traveller to the parental bear. 

"And there you sit, I suppose, all the day long, eh? " says Mr. 
George, with folded arms. 

" Just so, just so," the old man nods. 

" And don't you occupy yourself at all ? " 

" I watch the fire — and the boiling and the roasting — " 

"When there is any," says Mr. George, with great expression. 

"Just so. When there is any." 

" Don't you read, or get read to ? " 

The old man shakes his head with sharp sly triumph. " No, 
no. We have never been readers in our family. It don't pay. 
Stuff. Idleness. Folly. No, no ! " 

"There's not much to choose between your two states," says the 
visitor, in a key too low for the old man's dull hearing, as he looks 
from him to the old woman and back again. " I say ! " in a 
louder voice. 

" I hear you." 

" You'll sell me up at last, I suppose, when I am a day in 
arrear." 

" My dear friend ! " cries Grandfather Smallweed, stretching out 
both hands to embrace him. " Never ! Never, my dear friend ! 
But my friend in the city that I got to lend you the money — he 
might ! " 

" ! you can't answer for him ? " says Mr. George ; finishing 
the inquiry, in his lower key, with the words "you lying old 
rascal ! " 

" My dear friend, he is not to be depended on. I wouldn't 
trust him. He will have his bond, my dear friend." 

" Devil doubt him," says Mr. George. Charley appearing with 
a tray, on which are the pipe, a small paper of tobacco, and the 
brandy-and- water, he asks her, " How do you come here ! you 
haven't got the family face." 

"I goes out to work, sir," returns Charley. 

The trooper (if trooper he be or have been) takes her bonnet ofij 
with a light touch for so strong a hand, and pats her on the head. 



278 BLEAK HOUSE. 

" You give the house almost a wholesome look. It wants a bit of 
youth as much as it wants fresh air." Then he dismisses her, 
lights his pipe, and drinks to Mr. Smallweed's friend in the city — 
the one solitary flight of that esteemed old gentleman's imagination. 

"So you think he might be hard upon me, eh?" 

" I think he might — I am afraid he would. I have known 
him do it," says Grandfather Smallweed, incautiously, "twenty 
times." 

Incautiously, because his stricken better-half, who has been 
dozing over the fire for some time, is instantly aroused and jabbers 
" Twenty thousand pounds, twenty twenty-pound notes in a money- 
box, twenty guineas, twenty million twenty per cent, twenty — " 
and is then cut short by the flying cushion, which the visitor, to 
whom this singular experiment appears to be a novelty, snatches 
from her face as it crushes her in the usual manner. 

"You're a brimstone idiot. You're a scorpion — a brimstone 
scorpion ! You're a sweltering toad. You're a chattering clatter- 
ing broomstick witch, that ought to be burnt ! " gasps the old man, 
prostrate in his chair. " My dear friend, wiU you shake me up a 
little?" 

Mr. George, who has been looking first at one of them and then 
at the other, as if he were demented, takes his venerable acquaint- 
ance by the throat on receiving this request, and dragging him up- 
right in his chair as easily as if he were a doll, appears in two minds 
whether or no to shake all future power of cushioning out of him, 
and shake him into his grave. Resisting the temptation, but 
agitating him violently enough to make his head roll like a harle- 
quin's, he puts him smartly down in his chair again, and adjusts 
his skull-cap with such a rub, that the old man winks with both 
eyes for a minute afterwards. 

" Lord ! " gasps Mr. Smallweed. " That'll do. Thank you, 
my dear friend, that'll do. dear me, I'm out of breath. 
Lord ! " And Mr. Smallweed says it, not without evident appre- 
hensions of his dear friend, who still stands over him looming 
larger than ever. 

The alarming presence, however, gradually subsides into its 
chair, and falls to smoking in long puff's ; consoling itself with the 
philosophical reflection, " The name of your friend in the city 
begins with a D, comrade, and you're about right respecting the 
bond." 

" Did you speak, Mr. George ? " inquires the old man. 

The trooper shakes his head ; and leaning forward with his 
right elbow on his right knee and his pipe supported in that hand, 
while his other hand, resting on his left leg, squares his left elbow 



BLEAK HOUSE. 279 

in a martial manner, continues to smoke. Meanwhile he looks at 
Mr. Smallweed with grave attention, and now and then fans the 
cloud of smoke away, in order that he may see him the more 
clearly. 

" I take it," he says, making just as much and as little change 
in his position as will enable him to reach the glass to his lips, 
with a round, full action, "that I am the only man alive (or dead 
either), that gets the value of a pipe out of you ? " 

" Well ! " returns the old man, " it's true that I don't see com- 
pany, Mr. George, and that I don't treat. I can't afford to it. 
But as you, in your pleasant way, make your pipe a condition " 

"Why, it's not for the value of it; that's no great thing. It 
was a fancy to get it out of you. To have something in for my 
money." 

" Ha ! You're prudent, prudent, sir ! " cries Grandfather Small- 
weed, rubbing his legs. 

"Very. I always was." Puff. "It's a sure sign of my pru- 
dence, that I ever found the way here." Puff. " Also, that I am 
what I am." Puff. "I am well known to be prudent," says 
Mr. George, composedly smoking. "I rose in life, that way." 

"Don't be down-hearted, sir. You may rise yet." 

Mr. George laughs and drinks. 

" Ha'n't you no relations now," asks Grandfather Smallweed, 
with a twinkle in his eyes, "who would pay off this little principal, 
or who would lend you a good name or two that I could persuade 
my friend in the city to make you a further advance upon ? Two 
good names would be sufficient for my friend in the city. Ha'n't 
you no such relations, Mr. George % " 

Mr. George, still composedly smoking, replies, "If I had, I 
shouldn't trouble them. I have been trouble enough to my belong- 
ings in my day. It Tnay be a very good sort of penitence in a 
vagabond, who has wasted the best time of his life, to go back 
then to decent people that he never was a credit to, and live upon 
them ; but it's not my sort. The best kind of amends then, for 
having gone away, is to keep away, in my opinion." 

" But natural affection, Mr. George," hints Grandfather Small- 
weed. 

"For two good names, hey?" says Mr. George, shaking his 
head, and still composedly smoking. " No. That's not my sort, 
either." 

Grandfather Smallweed has been gradually sliding down in his 
chair since his last adjustment, and is now a bundle of clothes, 
with a voice in it calling for Judy. That Houri appearing, shakes 
him up in the usual manner, and is charged by the old gentleman 



280 BLEAK HOUSE. 

to remain near him. For he seems chary of putting his visitor to 
the trouble of repeating his late attentions. 

" Ha ! " he observes, when he is in trim again. " If you could 
have traced out the Captain, Mr. G-eorge, it would have been the 
making of you. If, when you first came here, in consequence of 
our advertisements in the newspapers — when I say ' our,' I'm 
alluding to the advertisements of my friend in the city, and one or 
two others who embark their capital in the same way, and are so 
friendly towards me as sometimes to give me a lift with my little 
pittance — if, at that time, you could have helped us, Mr. George, 
it would have been the making of you."' 

"I was Avilling enough to be 'made,' as you call it," says Mr. 
George, smoking not quite so placidly as before, for since the 
entrance of Judy he has been in some measure disturbed by a 
fascination, not of the admiring kind, which obliges him to look at 
her as she stands by her grandfather's chair ; " but, on the whole, 
I am glad I wasn't now." 

" Why, Mr. George 1 In the name of — of Brimstone, why ? " 
says Grandfather Smallweed, with a plain appearance of exaspera- 
tion. (Brimstone apparently suggested by his eye lighting on 
Mrs. Smallweed in her slumber.) 

'' For two reasons, comrade." 

" And what two reasons, Mr. George ? In the name of the " 

"Of our friend in the city?" suggests Mr. George, composedly 
drinking. 

" Ay, if you like. What two reasons 1 " 

" In the first place," returns Mr. George ; but still looking at 
Judy, as if, she being so old and so like her grandfather, it is in- 
different which of the two he addresses ; " you gentlemen took me 
in. You advertised that Mr. Hawdon (Captain Hawdon, if you 
hold to the saying. Once a captain always a captain) was to hear 
of something to his advantage." 

" Well 1 " returns the old man, shrilly and sharply. 

" Well ! " says Mr. George, smoking on. " It wouldn't have 
been much to his advantage to have been clapped into prison by 
the whole bill and judgment trade of London." 

"How do you know that? Some of his rich relations might 
have paid his debts, or compounded for 'em. Besides, he had 
taken us in. He owed us immense sums, all round. I would 
sooner have strangled him than had no return. If I sit here 
thinking of him," snarls the old man, holding up his impotent ten 
fingers, " I want to strangle him now." And in a sudden access of 
fury, he throws the cushion at the unoffending Mrs. Smallweed, 
but it passes harmlessly on one side of her chair. 



BLEAK HOUSE. 281 

"I don't need to be told," returns the trooper, taking his pipe 
from his lips for a moment, and carrying his eyes back from follow- 
ing the progress of the cushion, to the pipe-bowl which is burning 
low, " that he carried on heavily and went to ruin. I have been 
at his right hand many a day, when he was charging upon ruin 
full-gallop. I was with him, when he was sick and well, rich and 
poor. I laid this hand upon him, after he had run through every- 
thing and broken down everything beneath him — when he held a 
pistol to his head." 

" I wish he had let it off ! " says the benevolent old man, " and 
blown his head into as many pieces as he owed pounds ! " 

" That would have been a smash indeed," returns the trooper 
coolly ; " any way, he had been young, hopeful, and handsome in 
the days gone by ; and I am glad I never found him, when he was 
neither, to lead to a result so much to his advantage. That's 
reason number one." 

" I hope number two's as good ? " snarls the old man. 

" Why, no. It's more of a selfish reason. If I had found him, 
I must have gone to the other world to look. He was there." 

" How do you know he was there 1 " 

"He wasn't here." 

" How do you know he wasn't here ? " 

" Don't lose your temper as well as your money," says Mr. 
George, calmly knocking the ashes out of his pipe. " He was 
drowned long before. I am convinced of it. He went over a ship's 
side. Whether intentionally or accidentally, I don't know. Per- 
haps your friend in the city does. — Do you know what that tune 
is, Mr. Smallweed 1 " he adds, after breaking off to whistle one, 
accompanied on the table with the empty pipe. 

" Tune ! " replies the old man. " No. We never have tunes 
here." 

" That's the Dead March in Saul. They bury soldiers to it ; so 
it's the natural end of the subject. Now, if your pretty grand- 
daughter — excuse me, miss — will condescend to take care of this 
pipe for two months, we shall save the cost of one, next time. 
Good evening, Mr. Smallweed ! " 

" My dear friend ! " The old man gives him both his hands. 

"So you think your friend in the city will be hard upon me, if 
I fail in a payment ? " says the trooper, looking down upon him 
like a giant. 

"My dear friend, I am afraid he will," returns the old man, 
looking up at him like a pigmy. 

Mr. George laughs ; and with a glance at Mr. Smallweed, and a 
parting salutation to the scornful Judy, strides out of the parlour, 



1^82 BLEAK HOUSE. 

clashing imaginary sabres and other metallic appurtenances as he 
goes. 

" You're a damned rogue," says the old gentleman, making a 
hideous grimace at the door as he shuts it. " But I'll lime you, 
you dog, I'll lime you ! " 

After this amiable remark, his spirit soars into those enchanting 
regions of reflection which its education and pursuits have opened to 
it ; and again he and Mrs. Swallweed wile away the rosy hours, two 
unrelieved sentinels forgotten as aforesaid by the Black Serjeant. 

While the twain are faithful to their post, Mr. George strides 
through the streets with a massive kind of swagger and a grave- 
enough face. It is eight o'clock now, and the day is fast drawing 
in. He stops hard by Waterloo Bridge, and reads a playbill; 
decides to go to Astley's Theatre. Being there, is much delighted 
with the horses and the feats of strength ; looks at the weapons 
with a critical eye ; disapproves of the combats, as giving evidences 
of unskilful swordsmanship; but is touched liome by the senti- 
ments. In the last scene, when the Emperor of Tartary gets up 
into a cart and condescends to bless the united lovers, by hovering 
over them with the Union-Jack, his eye-lashes are moistened with 
emotion. 

The theatre over, Mr. George comes across the water again, and 
makes his way to that curious region lying about the Haymarket 
and Leicester Square, which is a centre of attraction to indifferent 
foreign hotels and indifferent foreigners, racket-courts, fighting- 
men, swordsmen, footguards, old china, gaming-houses, exhibitions, 
and a large medley of shabbiness and shrinking out of sight. Pene- 
trating to the heart of this region, he arrives, by a court and a 
long whitewashed passage, at a great brick building, composed of 
bare walls, floors, roof-rafters, and skylights ; on the front of 
which, if it can be said to have any front, is painted George's 
Shooting Gallery, &c. 

Into George's Shooting Gallery, &c., he goes ; and in it there 
are gas-lights (partly tiu'ned off now), and two whitened targets 
for rifle-shooting, and archery accommodation, and fencing appli- 
ances, and all necessaries for the British art of boxing. None of 
these sports or exercises are being pursued in George's Shooting Gal- 
lery to-night; which is so devoid of company, that a little grotesque 
man, with a large head, has it all to himself, and lies asleep upon 
the floor. 

The little man is dressed something like a gunsmith, in a green 
baize apron and cap ; and his face and hands are dirty with gun- 
powder, and begrimed with the loading of guns. As he lies in the 
light, before a glaring white target, the black upon him shines 



BLEAK HOUSE. 283 

again. Not far off, is the strong, rough, primitive table, with a 
vice upon it, at which he has been working. He is a little man 
with a face all crushed together, who api^ears, from a certain blue 
and speckled apjoearance that one of his cheeks j^resents, to have 
been blown up, in the way of business, at some odd time or times. 

" Phil ! " says the trooper, in a quiet voice. 

" All right ! " cries Phil, scrambling to his feet. 

" Anything been doing ? " 

" Flat as ever so much swipes," says Phil. " Five dozen rifle and 
a dozen pistol. As to aim ! " Phil gives a howl at the recollection. 

" Shut up shop, Phil ! " 

As Phil moves about to execute this order, it appears that he is 
lame, though able to move very quickly. On the speckled side 
of his face he has no eyebrow, and on the other side he has a bushy 
black one, which want of uniformity gives him a very singular and 
rather sinister appearance. Everything seems to have happened 
to his hands that could possibly take place, consistently with the 
retention of all the fingers ; for they are notched, and seamed, and 
crumpled all over. He appears to be very strong, and lifts heavy 
benches about as if he had no idea what weight was. He has a 
curious way of limping round the gallery with his shoulder against 
the wall, and tacking off at objects he wants to lay hold of, instead 
of going straight to them, which has left a smear all round the four 
walls, conventionally called " Phil's mark." 

This custodian of George's Gallery in George's absence concludes 
his proceedings, when he has locked the great doors, and turned 
out all the lights but one, which he leaves to glimmer, by dragging 
out from a wooden cabin in a corner two mattresses and bedding. 
These being drawn to opposite ends of the gallery, the trooper 
makes his own bed, and Phil makes his. 

" Phil ! " says the master, walking towards him without his coat 
and waistcoat, and looking more soldierly than ever in his braces. 
"You were found in a doorway, weren't you." 

"Gutter," says Phil. "Watchman tumbled over me." 

"Then, vagabondising came natural to i/ou, from the beginning." 

"As nat'ral as possible," says Phil. 

" Good night ! " 

"Good night, guv'ner." 

Phil cannot even go straight to bed, but finds it necessary to 
shoulder round two sides of the gallery, and then tack off at his 
mattress. The trooper, after taking a turn or two in the rifle- 
distance, and looking up at the moon now shining through the 
skylights, strides to his own mattress by a shorter route, and goes 
to bed too. 



284 BLEAK HOUSE. 

CHAPTER XXII. 

MR. BUCKET. 

Allegory looks pretty cool in Lincoln's Inn Fields, though the 
evening is hot ; for, both Mr. Tulkinghorn's windows are wide 
open, and the room is lofty, gusty, and gloomy. These may not 
be desirable characteristics when November comes with fog and 
sleet, or January with ice and snow ; but they have their merits 
in the sultry long vacation weather. They enable Allegory, though 
it has cheeks like peaches, and knees like bunches of blossoms, 
and rosy swellings for calves to its legs and muscles to its arms, 
to look tolerably cool to-night. 

Plenty of dust comes in at Mr. Tulkinghorn's windows, and 
plenty more has generated among his furniture and papers. It lies 
thick everywhere. When a breeze from the country that has lost 
its way, takes fright, and makes a blind hurry to rush out again, 
it flings as much dust in the eyes of Allegory as the law — or Mr. 
Tulkinghorn, one of its trustiest representatives — may scatter, on 
occasion, in the eyes of the laity. 

In his lowering magazine of dust, the universal article into which 
his papers and himself, and all his clients, and all things of earth, 
animate and inanimate, are resolving, Mr. Tulkinghorn sits at one 
of the open windows, enjoying a bottle of old port. Though a 
hard-grained man, close, dry, and silent, he can enjoy old wine 
with the best. He has a priceless binn of port in some artful 
cellar under the Fields, which is one of his many secrets. When 
he dines alone in chambers, as he has dined to-day, and has his bit 
of fish and his steak or chicken brought in from the coffee-house, 
he descends with a candle to the echoing regions below the deserted 
mansion, and, heralded by a remote reverberation of thundering 
doors, comes gravely back, encircled by an earthy atmosphere, and 
carrying a bottle from which he pours a radiant nectar, two score 
and ten years old, that blushes in the glass to find itself so famous, 
and fills the whole room with the fragrance of southern grapes. 

Mr. Tulkingliorn, sitting in the twilight by the open window, 
enjoys his wine. As if it whispered to him of its fifty years of 
silence and seclusion, it shuts him up the closer. More impenetrable 
than ever, he sits, and drinks, and mellows as it were, in secrecy; 
pondering, at that twilight hour, on all the mysteries he knows, 
associated with darkening woods in the country, and vast blank 
shut-up houses in town ; and perhaps sparing a thought or two for 
himself, and his family history, and his money, and his wiU — aU 
a mystery to every one — and that one bachelor friend of his, a 



BLEAK HOUSE. 286 

man of the same mould and a lawyer too, who lived the same kind 
of life until he was seventy-five years old, and then, suddenly con- 
ceiving (as it is supposed) an impression that it was too monotonous, 
gave his gold watch to his hair-dresser one summer evening, and 
walked leisurely home to the Temple, and hanged himself. 

But, Mr. Tulkinghorn is not alone to-night, to ponder at his 
usual length. Seated at the same table, though with his chair 
modestly and uncomfortably drawn a little away from it, sits a bald, 
mild, shining man, who coughs respectfully behind his hand when 
the lawyer bids him fill his glass. 

" Now, Snagsby," says Mr. Tulkinghorn, "to go over this odd 
story again." 

"If you please, sir." 

"You told me when you were so good as to step round here, last 
night " 

" For which I must ask you to excuse me if it was a liberty, 
sir ; but I remember that you had taken a sort of an interest in 
that person, and I thought it possible that you might — just — 
wish — to " 

Mr. Tulkinghorn is not the man to help him to any conclusion, 
or to admit anything as to any possibility concerning himself. So 
Mr. Snagsby trails off into saying, with an awkward cough, " I 
must ask you to excuse the liberty, sir, I am sure." 

"Not at all," says Mr. Tulkinghorn. "You told me, Snagsby, 
that you put on your hat and came round without mentioning your 
intention to your wife. That was prudent I think, because it's 
not a matter of such importance that it requires to be mentioned." 

"Well, sir," returns Mr. Snagsby, "you see my little woman 
is — not to put too fine a point upon it — inquisitive. She's 
inquisitive. Poor little thing, she's liable to spasms, and it's good 
for her to have her mind employed. In consequence of which, she 
employs it — I should say upon every individual thing she can lay 
hold of, whether it concerns her or not — especially not. My litftle 
woman has a very active mind, sir." 

Mr. Snagsby drinks, and murmurs with an admiring cough behind 
his hand, " Dear me, very fine wine indeed ! " 

" Therefore you kept your visit to yourself, last night 1 " says 
Mr. Tulkinghorn. " And to-night, too ? " 

"Yes, sir, and to-night, too. My little woman is at present 
in — not to put too fine a point upon it — in a pious state, or in 
what she considers such, and attends the Evening Exertions (which 
is the name they go by) of a reverend party of the name of Chad- 
band. He has a great deal of eloquence at his command, undoubt- 
edly, but I am not quite favourable to his style myself That's 



286 BLEAK HOUSE. 

neither here nor there. My little woman being engaged in that 
way, made it easier for me to step round in a quiet manner." 

Mr. Tulkinghorn assents. "Fill your glass, Snagsby." 

" Thank you, sir, I am sure," returns the stationer, with his 
cough of deference. " This is wonderfully fine wine, sir ! " 

"It is a rare wine now," says Mr. Tulkinghorn. "It is fifty 
years old." 

"Is it indeed, sir 1 But I am not surprised to hear it, I am 
sure. It might be — any age almost." After rendering this gen- 
eral tribute to the port, Mr. Snagsby in his modesty coughs an 
apology behind his hand for drinking anything so precious. 

" Will you run over, once again, what the boy said ? " asks Mr. 
Tulkinghorn, putting his hands into the pockets of his rusty small- 
clothes and leaning quietly back in his chair. 

"With pleasure, sir." 

Then, with fidelity, though with some prolixity, the law-stationer 
repeats Jo's statement made to the assembled guests at his house. 
On coming to the end of his narrative, he gives a great start, and 
breaks off" with — " Dear me, sir, I wasn't aware there was any 
other gentleman present ! " 

Mr. Snagsby is dismayed to see, standing with, an attentive face 
between himself and the lawyer, at a little distance from the table, 
a person with a hat and stick in his hand, who was not there when 
he himself came in, and has not since entered by the door or by 
either of the Avindows. There is a press in the room, but its hinges 
have not creaked, nor has a step been audible upon the floor. Yet 
this third person stands there, with his attentive face, and his hat 
and stick in his hands, and his hands behind him, a composed and 
quiet listener. He is "a stoutly built, steady-looking, sharp-eyed 
man in black, of about the middle age. Except that he looks at 
Mr. Snagsby as if he were going to take his portrait, there is noth- 
ing remarkable about him at first sight but his ghostly manner of 
appearing. 

" Don't mind this gentleman," says Mr. Tulkinghorn, in his quiet 
way. " This is only Mr. Bucket." 

" indeed, sir ? " returns the stationer, expressing by a cough 
that he is quite in the dark as to who Mr. Bucket may be. 

" I wanted him to hear this story," says the lawyer, "because I 
have half a mind (for a reason) to know more of it, and he is very 
intelligent in such things. What do you say to this. Bucket 1 " 

" It's very plain, sir. Since our people have moved this boy on, 
and he's not to be found on his old lay, if Mr. Snagsby don't object 
to go down with me to Tom-all-Alone's and point him out, we 
can have him here in less than a couple of hours' time. I can 



BLEAK HOUSE. 287 

do it without Mr. Snagsby, of course; but this is the shortest 
way." 

"Mr. Bucket is a detective officer, Snagsby," says the lawyer in 
explanation. 

"Is he, indeed, sir?" says Mr. Snagsby, with a strong tendency 
in his clump of hair to stand on end. 

" And if you have no real objection to accompany Mr. Bucket to 
the place in question," pursues the lawyer, " I shall feel obliged to 
you if you will do so." 

In a moment's hesitation on the part of Mr. Snagsby, Bucket 
dips down to the bottom of his mind. 

" Don't you be afraid of hurting the boy," he says. " You won't 
do that. It's all right as far as the boy's concerned. We shall only 
bring him here to ask him a question or so I want to put to him, 
and he'll be paid for his trouble, and sent away again. It'll be a 
good job for him. I promise you, as a man, that you shall see the 
boy sent away all right. Don't you be afraid of hurting him ; you 
an't going to do that." 

" Very well, Mr. Tulkinghoru ! " cries Mr. Snagsby cheerfully, 
and reassured, " since that's the case " 

" Yes ! and lookee here, Mr. Snagsby," resumes Bucket, taking 
him aside by the arm, tapping him familiarly on the breast, and 
speaking in a confidential tone. " You're a man of the world, you 
know, and a man of business, and a man of sense. That's what 
you are." 

"I am sure I am much obliged to you for your good opinion," 
returns the stationer, with his cough of modesty, " but " 

" That's whatyoit are, you know," says Bucket. " Now, it an't 
necessary to say to a man like you, engaged in your business, which 
is a business of trust and requires a person to be wide awake and 
have his senses about him, and his head screwed on tight (I had an 
uncle in your business once) — it an't necessary to say to a man 
like you, that it's the best and wisest way to keep little matters 
like this quiet. Don't you see 1 Quiet ! " 

" Certainly, certainly," returns the stationer. 

" I don't mind telling yo?<," says Bucket, with an engaging ap- 
pearance of frankness, " that, as far as I can understand it, there 
seems to be a doubt whether this dead person wasn't entitled to 
a little property, and whether this female hasn't been up to some 
games respecting that property, don't you see ! " 

" ! " says Mr. Snagsby, but not appearing to see quite dis- 
tinctly. 

" Now, what you want," pursues Bucket, again tapping Mr. 
Snagsby on the breast in a comfortable and soothing manner, " is, 



288 BLEAK HOUSE. 

that every person should have their rights according to justice. 
That's what you want." 

"To be sure," returns Mr. Snagsby with a nod. 

" On account of which, and at the same time to obUge a — do 
you call it, in your business, customer or client % I forget how my 
uncle used to call it." 

"Why, I generally say customer myself," replies Mr. Snagsby. 

" You're right ! " returns Mr. Bucket, shaking hands with him 
quite affectionately, — "on account of which, and at the same time 
to oblige a real good customer, you mean to go down with me, in 
confidence, to Tom-all-Alone's, and to keep the whole thing quiet 
ever afterwards and never mention it to any one. That's about 
your intentions, if I understand you % " 

"You are right, sir. You are right," says Mr. Snagsby. 

" Then here's your hat," returns his new friend, quite as intimate 
with it as if he had luade it ; " and if you're ready, I am." 

They leave Mr. Tulkinghorn, without a ruffle on the surface of 
his unfathomable depths, drinking his old wine, and go down into 
the streets. 

" You don't happen to know a very good sort of person df the 
name of Gridley, do you % " says Bucket, in friendly converse as 
they descend the stairs. 

" No," says Mr. Snagsby, considering, " I don't know anybody 
of that name. Why % " 

" Nothing particular," says Bucket ; " only, having allowed his 
temper to get a little the better of him, and having been threatening 
some respectable people, he is keeping out of the way of a warrant 
I have got against him — which it's a pity that a man of sense 
should do." 

As they walk along, Mr. Snagsby observes, as a novelty, that, 
however quick their pace may be, his companion still seems in some 
undefinable manner to lurk and lounge ; also, that whenever he is 
going to turn to the right or left, he pretends to have a fixed pur- 
pose in his mind of going straight ahead, and wheels off", sharply, 
at the very last moment. Now and then, when they pass a police 
constable on his beat, Mr. Snagsby notices that both the constable 
and his guide fall into a deep abstraction as they come towards each 
other, and appear entirely to overlook each other, and to gaze into 
space. In a few instances, Mr. Bucket, coming behind some under- 
sized young man with a shining hat on, and his sleek hair twisted 
into one flat curl on each side of his head, almost without glancing 
at him touches him with his stick ; upon which the young man, 
looking round, instantly evaporates. For the most part Mr. Bucket 
notices things in general, with a face as unchanging as the great 



BLEAK HOUSE. 289 

mourning ring on his little finger, or the brooch, composed of not 
much diamond and a good deal of setting, which he wears in his 
shirt. 

AVhen they come at last to Tom-all-Alone's, Mr. Bucket stops 
for a moment at the corner, and takes a lighted bull's-eye from the 
constable on duty there, who then accompanies him with his own 
particular bull's-eye at his waist. Between his two conductors, Mr. 
Snagsby passes along the middle of a villainous street, undrained, 
unventilated, deep in black mud and corrupt water — though the 
roads are dry elsewhere — and reeking with such smells and sights 
that he, who has lived in London all his life, can scarce believe his 
senses. Branching from this street and its heaps of ruins, are 
other streets and courts so infamous that Mr. Snagsby sickens in 
body and mind, and feels as if he were going, every moment deeper 
down, into the infernal gulf. 

" Draw off a bit here, Mr. Snagsby," says Bucket, as a kind of 
shabby palanquin is borne towards them, surrounded by a noisy 
crowd. " Here's the fever coming up the street ! " 

As the unseen wretch goes by, the crowd, leaving that object of 
attraction, hovers round the three visitors, like a dream of horrible 
faces, and fades away up alleys and into ruins, and behind walls ; 
and with occasional cries and shrill whistles of warning, thenceforth 
flits about them until they leave the place. 

" Are those the fever-houses. Darby ? " Mr. Bucket coolly asks, 
as he turns his bull's-eye on a line of stinking ruins. 

Darby replies that "all them are," and further that in all, for 
months and months, the people "have been down by dozens," and 
have been carried out, dead and dying "like sheep with the rot." 
Bucket observing to Mr. Snagsby as they go on again, that he looks 
a little poorly, Mr. Snagsby answers that he feels as if he couldn't 
breathe the dreadful air. 

There is inquiry made, at various houses, for a boy named Jo. 
As few people are known in Tom-all-Alone's by any Christian sign, 
there is much reference to Mr. Snagsby whether he means Carrots, 
or the Colonel, or Gallows, or Young Chisel, or Terrier Tip, or 
Lanky, or the Brick. Mr. Snagsby describes over and over again. 
There are conflicting opinions respecting the original of his picture. 
Some think it must be Carrots ; some say the Brick. The Colonel 
is produced, but is not at all near the thing. Whenever Mr. 
Snagsby and his conductors are stationary, the crowd flows round, 
and from its squalid depths obsequious advice heaves up to Mr. 
Bucket. Whenever they move, and the angry bull's-eyes glare, it 
fades away, and flits about them up the alleys, and in the ruins, 
and behind the walls, as before. 

u 



290 BLEAK HOUSE. 

At last there is a lair found out where Toughy, or the Tough 
Subject, lays him down at night ; and it is thought that the Tough 
Subject may be Jo. Comparison of notes between Mr. Snagsby 
and the proprietress of the house — a drunken face tied up in a 
black bundle, and flaring out of a heap of rags on the floor of a 
dog-hutch which is her private apartment — leads to the establish- 
ment of this conclusion. Toughy has gone to the Doctor's to get 
a bottle of stufl" for a sick woman, but will be here anon. 

" And who have we got here to-night ? " says Mr. Bucket, open- 
ing another door and glaring in with his bull's-eye. " Two drunken 
men, eh? And two women? The men are sound enough," turn- 
ing back each sleeper's arm from his face to look at him. " Are 
these your good men, my dears 1 " 

" Yes, sir," returns one of the women. " They are our hus- 
bands." 

" Brickmakers, eh?" 

" Yes, sir." 

" What are you doing here ? You don't belong to London." 

" No, sir. We belong to Hertfordshire." 

"Whereabouts in Hertfordshire?" 

" Saint Albans." 

" Come up on the tramp ? " 

" We walked up yesterday. There's no work down with us at 
present, but we have done no good by coming here, and shall do 
none, I expect." 

" That's not the way to do much good," says Mr. Bucket, turn- 
ing his head in the direction of the unconscious figures on the 
ground. 

" It ain't indeed," replies the woman with a sigh. " Jenny and 
me knows it full well." 

The room, though two or three feet higher than the door, is so 
low that the head of the tallest of the visitors would touch the 
blackened ceiling if he stood upright. It is offensive to every 
sense ; even the gross candle burns pale and sickly in the polluted 
air. There are a couple of benches, and a higher bench by M^ay of 
table. The men lie asleep where they stumbled down, but the 
women sit by the candle. Lying in the arms of the woman who 
has spoken, is a very young child. 

" Why, what age do you call that little creature ? " says Bucket. 
" It looks as if it was born yesterday." He is not at all rough 
about it ; and as he turns his light gently on the infant, Mr. 
Snagsby is strangely reminded of another infant, encircled with 
light, that he has seen in pictures. 

" He is not three weeks old yet, sir," says the woman. 



BLEAK HOUSE. 291 

"Is he your child?" 

" Mine." 

The other woman, who was bending over it when they came in, 
stoops down again, and kisses it as it lies asleep. 

" You seem as fond of it as if you were the mother yourself," 
says Mr. Bucket. 

" I was the mother of one like it, master, and it died." 

" Ah Jenny, Jenny ! " says the other woman to her ; " better 
so. Much better to think of dead than alive, Jenny ! Much 
better ! " 

" Why, you an't such an unnatural woman, I hope," returns 
Bucket, sternly, "as to wish your own child dead 1 " 

" God knows you are right, master," she returns. " I am not. 
I'd stand between it and death, with my own life if I could, as 
true as any pretty lady." 

" Then don't talk in that wrong manner," says Mr. Bucket, 
mollified again. " Why do you do it ? " 

" It's brought into my head, master," returns the woman, her 
eyes filling with tears, "when I look down at the child lying so. 
If it was never to wake no more, you'd think me mad, I should 
take on so. I know that veiy well. I was with Jenny when she 
lost hers — warn't I, Jenny ? — and I know how she grieved. But 
look round you, at this place. Look at them ; " glancing at the 
sleepers on the ground. " Look at the boy you're waiting for, 
who's gone ov^t to do me a good turn. Think of the children that 
your business lays with often and often, and that ^ou see grow up ! " 

" Well, well," says Mr. Bucket, " you train him respectable, and 
, he'll be a comfort to you, and look after you in your old age, you 
know." 

" I mean to try hard," she answers, wiping her eyes. " But I 

have been a thinking, being over-tired to-night, and not well with 

the ague, of all the many things that'll come in his way. My 

,1 master will be against it, and he'll be beat, and see me beat, and 

u made to fear his home, and perhaps to stray wild. If I work for 

: him ever so much, and ever so hard, there's no one to help me ; 

[ and if he should be turned bad, 'spite of all I could do, and the 

[ time should come when I should sit by him in his sleep, made 

hard and changed, an't it likely I should think of him as he lies in 

my lap now, and wish he had died as Jenny's child died ! " 

" There, there ! " says Jenny. " Liz, you're tired and ill. Let 
me take him." 

In doing so, she displaces the mother's dress, but quickly re- 
adjusts it over the wounded and bruised bosom where the baby has 
been lying. 



292 BLEAK HOUSE. 

" It's my dead child," says Jenny, walking up and down as she 
nurses, " that makes me love this child so dear, and it's my dead 
child that makes her love it so dear too, as even to think of 
its being taken away from her now. While she thinks that, / 
think what fortune would I give to have my darling back. But 
we mean the same thing, if we knew how to say it, us two mothers 
does in our poor hearts ! " 

As Mr. Snagsby blows his nose, and coughs his cough of sympa- 
thy, a step is heard without. Mr. Bucket throws his light into 
the doorway, and says to Mr. Snagsby, " Now, what do you say to 
Toughy? Will Ae do?" 

" That's Jo ! " says Mr. Snagsby. 

Jo stands amazed in the disc of light, like a ragged figure in a 
magic-lanthom, trembling to think that he has offended against 
the law in not having moved on far enough. Mr. Snagsby, how- 
ever, giving him the consolatory assurance, " It's only a job you 
will be paid for, Jo," he recovers ; and, on being taken outside by 
Mr. Bucket for a little private confabulation, tells his tale satisfac- 
torily, though out of breath. 

"I have squared it with the lad," says Mr. Bucket, returning, 
"and it's all right. Now, Mr. Snagsby, we're ready for you." 

First, Jo has to complete his errand of good-nature by handing 
over the physic he has been to get, which he delivers with the 
laconic verbal direction that "it's to be all took d'rectly." Sec- 
ondly, Mr. Snagsby has to lay upon the table half-a-crown, his 
usual panacea for an immense variety of afflictions. Thirdly, Mr. 
Bucket has to take Jo by the arm a little above the elbow and 
walk him on before him : without which observance, neither the 
Tough Subject nor any other Subject could be professionally con- 
ducted to Lincoln's Inn Fields. These arrangements completed, 
they give the women good night, and come out once more into 
black and foul Tom-all- Alone's. 

By the noisome ways through which they descended into that 
pit, they gradually emerge from it ; the crowd flitting, and whis- 
tling, and skulking about them, until they come to the verge, where 
restoration of the bull's-eyes is made to Darby. Here, the crowd, 
like a concourse of imprisoned demons, turns back, yelling, and is 
seen no more. Through the clearer and fresher streets, never so 
clear and fresh to Mr. Snagsby's mind as now, they walk and ride, 
until they come to Mr. Tulkinghorn's gate. 

As they ascend the dim stairs (Mr. Tulkinghorn's chambers being 
on the first floor), Mr. Bucket mentions that he has the key of the 
outer door in his pocket, and that there is no need to ring. For a 
man so expert in most things of that kind. Bucket takes time to 



BLEAK HOUSE. 293 

open the door, and makes some noise too. It may be that he 
sounds a note of preparation. 

Howbeit, they come at last into the hall, where a lamp is burn- 
ing, and so into Mr. Tulkinghorn's usual room — the room where 
he drank his old wine to-night. He is not there, but his two old- 
fashioned candlesticks are ; and the room is tolerably light. 

Mr. Bucket, still having his professional hold of Jo, and appear- 
ing to Mr. Snagsby to possess an unlimited number of eyes, makes 
a little way into this room, when Jo starts, and stops. 

" What's the matter ? " says Bucket in a whisper. 

" There she is ! " cries Jo. 

"Who?" 

" The lady ! " 

A female figure, closely veiled, stands in the middle of the room, 
where the light falls upon it. It is quite still, and silent. The 
front of the figure is towards them, but it takes no notice of their 
entrance, and remains like a statue. 

" Now, tell me," says Bucket aloud, " how you know that to be 
the lady." 

" I know the wale," replies Jo, staring, " and the bonnet, and 
the gownd." 

" Be quite sure of what you say. Tough," returns Bucket, nar- 
rowly observant of him. " Look again." 

" I am a looking as hard as ever I can look," says Jo, with 
starting eyes, "and that there's the wale, the bonnet, and the 
gownd." 

"What about those rings you told me of?" asks Bucket. 

" A sparkling all over here," says Jo, rubbing the fingers of his 
left hand on the knuckles of his right, without taking his eyes 
from the figiu'e. 

The figure removes the right-hand glove, and shows the hand. 

" Now, wdiat do you say to that ? " asks Bucket. 

Jo shakes his head. " Not rings a bit like them. Not a hand 
like that." 

"What are you talking of?" says Bucket; evidently pleased 
though, and well pleased too. 

" Hand was a deal whiter, a deal delicater, and a deal smaller," 
returns Jo. 

"Why, you'll tell me I'm my own mother, next," says Mr. 
Bucket. "Do you recollect the lady's voice?" 

"I think I does," says Jo. 

The figure speaks. " Was it at all like this ? I will speak as 
long as you like if you are not sure. Was it this voice, or at all 
like this voice ? " 



294 BLEAK HOUSE. 

Jo looks aghast at Mr. Bucket. " Not a bit ! " 

"Then, what," retorts that worthy, pointing to the figure, "did 
you say it was the lady for ? " 

" Cos," says Jo, with a perplexed stare, but without being at 
all shaken in his certainty, " Cos that there's the wale, the bonnet, 
and the gownd. It is her and it an't her. It an't her hand, nor 
yet her rings, nor yet her woice. But that there's the wale, the 
bonnet, and the gownd, and they're wore the same way wot she 
wore 'em, and it's her height wot she wos, and she giv me a sov'- 
ring, and hooked it." 

" Well ! " says Mr. Bucket, slightly, " we haven't got much 
good out of you. But, however, here's five shillings for you. Take 
care how you spend it, and don't get yourself into trouble." Bucket 
stealthily tells the coins from one hand into the other like counters 
— which is a way he has, his principal use of them being in these 
games of skill — and then puts them, in a little pile, into the boy's 
hand, and takes him out to the door ; leaving Mr. Snagsby, not 
by any means comfortable under these mysterious circumstances, 
alone with the veiled figure. But, on Mr. Tulkinghorn's coming 
into the room, the veil is raised, and a sufiiciently good-looking 
Frenchwoman is revealed, though her expression is something of 
the intensest. 

" Thank you. Mademoiselle Hortense," says Mr. Tulkinghom, 
with his usual equanimity. " I will give you no further trouble 
about this little wager." 

" You will do me the kindness to remember, sir, that I am not 
at present placed?" says Mademoiselle. 

" Certainly, certainly ! " 

" And to confer upon me the favour of your distinguished 
recommendation ? " 

" By all means, Mademoiselle Hortense." 

" A word from Mr. Tulkinghorn is so powerful." — "It shall not 
be wanting, Mademoiselle." — "Receive the assurance of my de- 
voted gratitude, dear sir." — " Good night." Mademoiselle goes 
out with an air of native gentility ; and Mr. Bucket, to whom it is, 
on an emergency, as natural to be groom of the ceremonies as it is 
to be anything else, shows her down-stairs, not without gallantry. 

" Well, Bucket ? " quoth Mr. Tulkinghorn, on his return. 

" It's all squared, you see, as I squared it myself, sir. There 
an't a doubt that it was the other one with this one's dress on. 
The boy was exact respecting colours and everything. Mr. Snagsby, 
I promised you as a man that he should be sent away all right. 
Don't say it wasn't done ! " 

" You have kept your word, sir," returns the stationer; "and if 



BLEAK HOUSE. 295 

I can be of no further use, Mr. Tulkinghorn, I think, as my little 
woman will be getting anxious " 

" Thank you, Snagsby, no further use," says Mr. Tulkinghorn. 
" I am quite indebted to you for the trouble you have taken already." 

" Not at all, sir. I wish you good night." 

"You see, Mr. Snagsby," says Mr. Bucket, accompanying him to 
the door, and shaking hands with him over and over again, "what 
I like in you is, that you're a man it's of no use pumping ; that's 
what you are. When you know you have done a right thing, you 
put it away, and it's done with and gone, and there's an end of it. 
That's what you do." 

" That is certainly what I endeavour to do, sir," returns Mr. 
Snagsby. 

" No, you don't do yourself justice. It an't what you endeavour 
to do," says Mr. Bucket, shaking hands with him and blessing him 
in the tenderest manner, " it's what you do. That's what I estimate 
in a man in your way of business." 

Mr. Snagsby makes a suitable response ; and goes homeward so 
confused by the events of the evening, that he is doubtful of his 
being awake and out — doubtful of the reality of the streets through 
which he goes — doubtful of the reality of the moon that shines 
above him. He is presently reassured on these subjects, by the 
unchallengeable reality of Mrs. Snagsby, sitting up with her head 
in a perfect beehive of curl-papers and nightcap : who has dis- 
patched Guster to the police-station with official intelligence of her 
husband's being made away with, and who, within the last two 
hours, has passed through every stage of swooning with the greatest 
decorum. But, as the little woman feelingly says, many thanks she 
gets for it ! 



CHAPTER XXIII. 

Esther's narrative. 

We came home from Mr. Boythorn's after six pleasant weeks. 
We were often in the park, and in the woods, and seldom passed 
the Lodge where we had taken shelter without looking in to speak 
to the keeper's wife ; but we saw no more of Lady Dedlock, except 
at church on Sundays. There was company at Chesney Wold ; and 
although several beautiful faces surrounded her, her face retained 
the same influence on me as at first. I do not quite know, even 
now, whether it was painful or pleasurable : whether it drew me 
towards her, or made me shrink from her. I think I admired her 



296 BLEAK HOUSE. 

with a kind of fear ; and I know that in her presence my thoughts 
always wandered back, as they had done at first, to that old time 
of my life. 

I had a fancy, on more than one of these Sundays, that what this 
lady so curiously was to me, I was to her — I mean that I disturbed 
her thoughts as she influenced mine, though in some different way. 
But when I stole a glance at her, and saw her so composed and dis- 
tant and unapproachable, I felt this to be a foolish weakness. In- 
deed, I felt the whole state of my mind in reference to her to be 
weak and unreasonable ; and I remonstrated with myself about 
it as much as I could. 

One incident that occurred before we quitted Mr. Boythorn's 
house, I had better mention in this place. 

I was walking in the garden with Ada, when I was told that 
some one wished to see me. Going into the breakfast-room, where 
this person was waiting, I found it to be the French maid who had 
cast off her shoes and walked through the wet grass, on the day 
when it thundered and lightened. 

" Mademoiselle," she began, looking fixedly at me with her too- 
eager eyes, though otherwise presenting an agreeable appearance, 
and speaking neither with boldness nor servility, " I have taken a 
great liberty in coming here, but you know how to excuse it, being 
so amiable, mademoiselle." 

" No excuse is necessary," I returned, " if you wish to speak to 
me." 

" That is my desire, mademoiselle. A thousand thanks for the 
permission. I have your leave to speak. Is it not ? " she said, in 
a quick, natural way. 

" Certainly," said I. ■ 

" Mademoiselle, you are so amiable ! Listen then, if you please. 
I have left my Lady. We could not agree. My Lady is so high ; 
so very high. Pardon ! Mademoiselle, you are right ! " Her quick- 
ness anticipated what I might have said presently, but as yet had 
only thought. "It is not for me to come here to complain of my 
Lady. But I say she is so high, so very high. I will say not a 
word more. All the world knows that." 

" Go on, if you please," said I. 

"Assuredly; mademoiselle, I am thankful for your politeness. 
Mademoiselle, I have an inexpressible desire to find service with a 
young lady who is good, accomplished, beautiful. You are good, 
accomplished, and beautiful as an angel. Ah, could I have the 
honour of being your domestic ! " 

" I am sorry " I began. 

" Do not dismiss me so soon, mademoiselle ! " she said, with an 



BLEAK HOUSE. 297 

involuntary contraction of her fine black eyebrows. " Let me hope, 
a moment ! Mademoiselle, I know this service would be more re- 
tired than that which I have quitted. Well ! I wish that. I 
know this service would be less distinguished than that which 
I have quitted. Well ! I wish that. I know that I should win 
less, as to wages, here. Good. I am content." 

" 1 assure you," said I, quite embarrassed by the mere idea of 
having such an attendant, " that I keep no maid " 

" Ah, mademoiselle, but why not ? Why not, when you can have 
one so devoted to you ? Who would be enchanted to serve you ; 
who would be so true, so zealous, and so faithful, every day ! 
Mademoiselle, I wish with all my heart to serve you. Do not 
speak of money at present. Take me as I am. For nothing ! " 

She was so singularly earnest that I drew back, almost afraid of 
her. Without appearing to notice it, in her ardour, she still pressed 
herself upon me ; speaking in a rapid subdued voice, though always 
with a certain grace and propriety. 

" Mademoiselle, I come from the South country, where we are 
quick, and where we like and dislike very strong. My Lady was 
too high for me ; I was too high for her. It is done — past — 
finished ! Receive me as your domestic, and I will serve you well. 
I -will do more for you, than you figure to yourself now. Chut ! 
mademoiselle, I wUl — no matter, I will do my utmost possible, in 
all things. If you accept my service, you will not repent it. 
Mademoiselle, you will not repent it, and I will serve you well. 
You don't know how well ! " 

There was a lowering en'ergy in her face, as she stood looking 
at me while I explained the impossibility of my engaging her (with- 
out thinking it necessary to say how very little I desired to do so), 
which seemed to bring visibly before me some woman from the 
streets of Paris in the reign of terror. She heard me out without 
interruption ; and then said, with her pretty accent, and in her 
mildest voice : 

"Hey, mademoiselle, I have received my answer! I am sorry 
of it. But I must go elsewhere, and seek what I have not found 
here. WHl you graciously let me kiss your hand 1 " 

She looked at me more intently as she took it, and seemed to 
take note, with her momentary touch, of every vein in it. "I fear 
I surprised you, mademoiselle, on the day of the storm 1 " she said, 
with a parting curtsey. 

I confessed that she had surprised us all. 

" I took an oath, mademoiselle," she said, smiling, " and I 
wanted to stamp it on my mind, so that I might keep it faithfully. 
And I will ! Adieu, mademoiselle ! " 



298 BLEAK HOUSE. 

So ended our conference, which I was very glad to bring to a 
close. I supposed she went away from the village, for I saw her 
no more ; and nothing else occurred to disturb our tranquil sum- 
mer pleasures, until six weeks were out, and we returned home, as 
I began just now by saying. 

At that time, and for a good many weeks after that time, Richard 
was constant in his visits. Besides coming every Saturday or Sun- 
day, and remaining with us until Monday morning, he sometimes 
rode out on horseback unexpectedly, and passed the evening with 
us, and rode back again early next day. He was as vivacious as 
ever, and told us he was very industrious ; but I was not easy in 
my mind about him. It appeared to me that his industry was all 
misdirected. I could not find that it led to anything but the for- 
mation of delusive hopes in connection with the suit already the 
pernicious cause of so much sorrow and ruin. He had got at the 
core of that mystery now, he told us ; and nothing could be plainer 
than that the will under which he and Ada were to take, I don't 
know how many thousands of pounds, must be finally established, 
if there were any sense or justice in the Court of Chancery — but 
O what a great if that sounded in my ears — and that this happy 
conclusion could not be much longer delayed. He proved this to 
himself by all the weary arguments on that side he had read, and 
every one of them sunk him deeper in the infatuation. He had 
even begun to haunt the Court. He told us how he saw Miss 
Flite there daily ; how they talked together, and how he did her 
little kindnesses ; and how, while he laughed at her, he pitied her 
from his heart. But he never thought — never, my poor, dear, 
sanguine Richard, capable of so much happiness then, and with 
such better things before him ! — what a fatal link was riveting 
between his fresh youth and her faded age ; between his free hopes 
and her caged birds, and her hungry garret, and her wandering 
mind. 

Ada loved him too well, to mistrust him much in anything he 
said or did, and my Guardian, though he frequently complained of 
the east wind and read more than usual in the Growlery, preserved 
a strict silence on the subject. So, I thought, one day when I 
went to London to meet Caddy Jellyby, at her solicitation, I would 
ask Richard to be in waiting for me at the coach-ofiice, that we 
might have a little talk together. I found him there when I 
arrived, and we walked away arm in arm. 

"Well, Richard," said I, as soon as I could begin to be grave 
with him, " are you beginning to feel more settled now 1 " 

" yes, my dear ! " returned Richard. " I'm all right enough." 

" But settled 1 " said I. 



BLEAK HOUSE. 299 

" How do you mean, settled ? " returned Richard, with his gay 
laugh. 

"Settled in the law," said I. 

"0 aye," replied Eichard, " I'm all right enough." 

"You said that before, my dear Richard." 

" And you don't think it's an answer, eh 1 Well ! Perhaps it's 
not. Settled ? You mean, do I feel as if I were settling down ? " 

"Yes." 

"Why, no, I can't say I am settling down," said Richard, 
strongly emphasising "down," as if that expressed the difficulty; 
" because one can't settle down while this business remains in such 
an unsettled state. When I say this business, of course I mean 
the - — forbidden subject." 

" Do you think it will ever be in a settled state 1 " said I. 

"Not the least doubt of it," answered Richard. 

We walked a little way without speaking ; and presently Richard 
addressed me in his frankest and most feeling manner, thus : 

"My dear Esther, I understand you, and I wish to Heaven I 
were a more constant sort of fellow. I don't mean constant to 
Ada, for I love her dearly — better and better every day — but con- 
stant to myself. (Somehow, I mean something that I can't very 
well express, but you'll make it out.) If I were a more constant 
sort of fellow, I should have held on, either to Badger, or to Kenge 
and Carboy, like grim Death ; and should have begun to be steady 
and systematic by this time, and shouldn't be in debt, and " 

" Are you in debt, Richard 1 " 

"Yes," said Richard, "I am a little so, my dear. Also, I have 
taken rather too much to billiards, and that sort of thing. Now 
the murder's out ; you despise me, Esther, don't you 1 " 

"You know I don't," sa,id I. 

"You are kinder to me than I often am to myself," he returned. 
" My dear Esther, I am a very unfortunate dog not to be more 
settled, but how ca7i I be more settled ? If you lived in an unfin- 
ished house, you couldn't settle down in it ; if you were condemned 
to leave everything you undertook, unfinished, you would find it 
hard to apply yourself to anything ; and yet that's my unhappy 
case. I was born into this unfinished contention with all its 
chances and changes, and it began to unsettle me before I quite 
knew the difference between a suit at law and a suit of clothes ; 
and it has gone on unsettling me ever since ; and here I am now, 
conscious sometimes that I am but a worthless fellow to love my 
confiding cousin Ada." 

We were in a solitary place, and he put his hand before his 
eyes and sobbed as he said the words. 



300 BLEAK HOUSE. 

" Richard ! " said I, "do not be so moved. You have a noble 
nature, and Ada's love may make you worthier every day." 

"I know, my dear," he replied, pressing my arm, "I know all 
that. You mustn't mind my being a little soft now, for I have 
had all this upon ray mind for a long time ; and have often meant 
to speak to you, and have sometimes wanted opportunity and 
sometimes courage. I know what the thought of Ada ought to do 
for me, but it doesn't do it. I am too unsettled even for that. 
I love her most devotedly ; and yet I do her wrong, in doing my- 
self wrong, every day and hour. But it can't last for ever. We 
shall come on for a final hearing, and get judgment in our favour ; 
and then you and Ada shall see what I can really he ! " 

It had given me a pang to hear him sob, and see the tears start 
out between his fingers ; but that was infinitely less affecting to 
me, than the hopeful animation with which he said these words. 

"I have looked well into the papers, Esther — -I have been deep 
in them for months " — he continued, recovering his cheerfulness 
in a moment, " and you may rely upon it that we shall come out 
triumphant. As to years of delay, there has been no want of 
them, Heaven knows ! and there is the greater probability of our 
bringing the matter to a speedy close ; in fact, it's on the paper 
now. It will be all right at last, and then you shall see ! " 

Recalling how he had just now placed Messrs. Kenge and Car- 
boy in the same category with Mr. Badger, I asked him when he 
intended to be articled in Lincoln's Inn ? 

" There again ! I think not at all, Esther," he returned with 
an effort. " I fancy I have had enough of it. Having worked at 
Jarndyce and Jarndyce like a galley slave, I have slaked my thirst 
for the law, and satisfied myself that I shouldn't like it. Besides, 
I find it unsettles me more and more to be so constantly upon the 
scene of action. So what," continued Richard, confident again by 
this time, "do I naturally turn my thoughts to 1 " 

"I can't imagine," said I. 

" Don't look so serious," returned Richard, " because it's the 
best thing I can do, my dear Esther, I am certain. It's not as if 
I wanted a profession for life. These proceedings will come to a 
termination, and then I am provided for. No. I look upon it as 
a pursuit which is in its nature more or less unsettled, and there- 
fore suited to my temporary condition — I may say, precisely suited. 
What is it that I naturally turn my thoughts to ? " 

I looked at him, and shook my head. 

"What," said Richard, in a tone of perfect conviction, "but the 
army ! " 

" The army ? " said I. 



BLEAK HOUSE. 301 

" The army, of course. What I have to do, is, to get a commis- 
sion ; and — there I am, you know ! " said Richard. 

And then he showed me, proved by elaborate calculations in his 
pocket-book, that supposing he had contracted, say two hundred 
pounds of debt in six months, out of the army ; and that he con- 
tracted no debt at all within a corresponding period, in the army 
— as to which he had quite made up his mind ; this step must 
involve a saving of four hundred pounds in a year, or two thousand 
pounds in five years — which was a considerable sum. And then 
he spoke, so ingenuously and sincerely, of the sacrifice he made in 
withdrawing himself for a time from Ada, and of the earnestness 
with which he aspired — as in thought he always did, I know full 
well — to repay her love, and to ensure her happiness, and to con- 
quer what was amiss in himself, and to acquire the very soul of 
decision, that he made my heart ache keenly, sorely. For, I thought 
how would this end, how could this end, when so soon and so surely 
all his manly qualities were touched by the fatal blight that ruined 
everything it rested on ! 

I spoke to Richard with all the earnestness I felt, and all the 
hope I could not quite feel then ; and implored him, for Ada's 
sake, not to put any trust in Chancery. To all I said, Richard 
readily assented ; riding over the Court and everything else in his 
easy way, and drawing the brightest pictures of the character he 
was to settle into — alas, when the grievous suit should loose its 
hold upon him ! We had a long talk, but it always came back to 
that, in substance. 

At last, we came to Soho Square, where Caddy Jellyby had 
appointed to wait for me, as a quiet place in the neighbourhood of 
Newman Street. Caddy was in the garden in the centre, and hur- 
ried out as soon as I appeared. After a few cheerful words, Richard 
left us together. 

"Prince has a pupil over the way, Esther," said Caddy, "and 
got the key for us. So, if you will walk round and round here 
with me, we can lock ourselves in, and I can tell you comfortably 
what I wanted to see your dear good face about." 

" Very well, my dear," said I. " Nothing could be better." So 
Caddy, after affectionately squeezing the dear good face as she 
called it, locked the gate, and took my arm, and we began to walk 
round the garden veiy cosily. 

" You see, Esther," said Caddy, who thoroughly enjoyed a little 
confidence, " after you spoke to me about its being wrong to marry 
without Ma's knowledge, or even to keep Ma long in the dark 
respecting our engagement — though I don't believe Ma cares much 
for me, I must say — I thought it right to mention your opinions 



302 BLEAK HOUSE. 

to Prince. In the first place, because I want to profit by every- 
thing you tell me ; and in the second place, because I have no 
secrets from Prince." 

" I hope he apjDroved, Caddy 1 " 

"0, my dear ! I assure you he would approve of anything you 
could say. You have no idea what an opinion he has of you ! " 

" Indeed ? " 

"Esther, it's enough to make anybody but me jealous," said 
Caddy, laughing and shaking her head ; " but it only makes me 
joyful, for you are the first friend I ever had, and the best friend I 
ever can have, and nobody can respect and love you too much to 
please me." 

"Upon my word, Caddy," said I, "you are in the general con- 
spiracy to keep me in a good humour. Well, my dear 1 " 

"Well! I am going to tell you," replied Caddy, crossing her 
hands confidentially upon my arm. " So we talked a good deal 
about it, and so I said to Prince, ' Prince, as Miss Summer- 
son '" 

" I hope you didn't say ' Miss Summerson ' ? " 

" No. I didn't ! " cried Caddy, greatly pleased, and with the 
brightest of faces. "I said, 'Esther.' I said to Prince, 'As 
Esther is decidedly of that opinion. Prince, and has expressed it to 
me, and always hints it when she writes those kind notes, which 
you are so fond of hearing me read to you, I am prepared to dis- 
close the truth to Ma whenever you think proper. And I think, 
Prince,' said I, ' that Esther thinks that I should be in a better, 
and truer, and more honourable position altogether, if you did the 
same to your Papa.' " 

"Yes, my dear," said I. "Esther certainly does think so." 

" So I was right, you see ! " exclaimed Caddy. " Well ! this 
troubled Prince a good deal ; not because he had the least doubt 
about it, but because he is so considerate of the feelings of old Mr. 
Turveydrop ; and he had his apprehensions that old Mr. Turvey- 
drop might break his heart, or faint away, or be very much over- 
come in some aff"ecting manner or other, if he made such an 
announcement. He feared old Mr. Turveydrop might consider it 
undutiful, and might receive too great a shock. For, old Mr. 
Turveydrop's deportment is very beautiful you know, Esther," 
added Caddy ; " and his feelings are extremely sensitive." 

" Are they, my dear ? " 

" 0, extremely sensitive. Prince says so. Now, this has caused 
my darling child — I didn't mean to use the expression to you, 
Esther," Caddy apologised, her face sufi"used with blushes, " but I 
generally call Prince my darling child." 



BLEAK HOUSE. 303 

I laughed ; and Caddy laughed and blushed, and went on. 

"This has caused him, Esther " 

" Caused whom, my dear 1 " 

"0 you tiresome thing ! " said Caddy, laughing, with her pretty 
face on fire. " My darling child, if you insist upon it ! — This 
has caused him weeks of uneasiness, and has made him delay, from 
day to day, in a very anxious manner. At last he said to me, 
' Caddy, if Miss Summerson, who is a great favourite with my 
father, could be prevailed upon to be present when I broke the 
subject, I think I could do it.' So I promised I would ask you. 
And I made up my mind, besides," said Caddy, looking at me hope- 
fully, but timidly, "that if you consented, I would ask you after- 
wards to come with me to Ma. This is what I meant, when I 
said in my note tliat I had a great favour and a great assistance to 
beg of you. And if you thought you could grant it, Esther, we 
should both be very grateful." 

" Let me see, Caddy," said I, pretending to consider. " Really 
I think I could do a greater thing than that, if the need were 
pressing. I am at your service and the darling child's, my dear, 
whenever you like." 

Caddy was quite transported by this reply of mine; being, I 
believe, as susceptible to the least kindness or encouragement as 
any tender heart that ever beat in this world ; and after another 
turn or two round the garden, during which she put on an entirely 
new pair of gloves, and made herself as resplendent as possible that 
she might do no avoidable discredit to the Master of Deportment, 
we went to Newman Street direct. 

Prince was teaching, of course. We found him engaged with a 
not very hopeful pupil — a stubborn little girl with a sulky fore- 
head, a deep voice, and an inanimate dissatisfied mama — whose 
case was certainly not rendered more hopeful by the confusion into 
which we threw her preceptor. The lesson at last came to an end, 
after proceeding as discordantly as possible ; and when the little 
girl had changed her shoes, and had had her white muslin extin- 
guished in shawls, she was taken away. After a few words of 
preparation, we then went in search of Mr. Turveydrop ; whom we 
found, grouped with his hat and gloves, as a model of Deportment, 
on the sofa in his private apartment — the only comfortable room 
in the house. He appeared to have dressed at his leisure, in the 
intervals of a light collation ; and his dressing-case, brushes, and 
so forth, all of quite an elegant kind, lay about. 

"Father, Miss Summerson; Miss Jelly by." 

" Charmed ! Enchanted ! " said Mr. Turveydrop, rising with 
his high-shouldered bow. " Permit me ! " handing chairs. " Be 



304 BLEAK HOUSE. 

seated ! " kissing the tips of his left fingers. " Overjoyed ! " shut- 
ting his eyes and rolling. "My little retreat is made a Paradise." 
Re-composing himself on the sofa, like the second gentleman in 
Europe. 

"Again you find us, Miss Summerson," said he, "using our 
little arts to polish, polish ! Again the sex stimulates us, and 
rewards us, by the condescension of its lovely presence. It is 
much in these times (and we have made an awfully degenerating 
business of it since the days of His Royal Highness the Prince 
Regent — my patron, if I may presume to say so) to experience 
that Deportment is not wholly trodden under foot by mechanics. 
That it can yet bask in the smile of Beauty, my dear madam." 

I said nothing, which I thought a suitable reply ; and he took 
a pinch of snuff". 

" My dear son," said Mr. Turveydrop, " you have four schools 
this afternoon. I would recommend a hasty sandwich." 

"Thank you, father," returned Prince, "I will be sure to be 
punctual. My dear father, may I beg you to prepare your mind 
for what I am going to say ! " 

" Good Heaven ! " exclaimed the model, pale and aghast, as 
Prince and Caddy, hand in hand, bent down before him. " What 
is this 1 Is this lunacy ! Or what is this ? " 

" Father," returned Prince, with great submission, " I love this 
young lady, and we are engaged." 

" Engaged ! " cried Mr. Turveydrop, reclining on the sofa, and 
shutting out the sight with his hand. "An arrow launched at 
niy brain, by my own child ! " 

" We have been engaged for some time, father," faltered Prince; 
"and Miss Summerson, hearing of it, advised that we should 
declare the fact to you, and was so very kind as to attend on the 
present occasion. Miss Jellyby is a young lady who deeply respects 
you, father." 

Mr. Turveydrop uttered a groan. 

"No, pray don't ! Pray don't, father," urged his son. "Miss 
Jellyby is a young lady who deeply respects you, and our first 
desire is to consider your comfort." 

Mr. Turveydrop sobbed. 

" No, pray don't, father ! " cried his son. 

"Boy," said Mr. Turveydrop, "it is well that your sainted 
mother is spared this pang. Strike deep, and spare not. Strike 
home, sir, strike home ! " 

" Pray, don't say so, father," implored Prince, in tears. " It 
goes to my heart. I do assure you, father, that our first wish and 
intention is to consider your comfort. Caroline and I do not forget 



BLEAK HOUSE. 305 

our duty — what is my duty is Caroline's, as we have often said 
together — and, with your approval and consent, father, we will 
devote ourselves to making your life agreeable." 

" Strike home," miu-mured Mr. Turveydrop. " Strike home ! " 

But he seemed to listen, I thought, too. 

" My dear father," returned Prince, " we well know what little 
comforts you are accustomed to, and have a right to ; and it will 
always be our study, and our pride, to provide those before any- 
thing. If you will bless us with your approval and consent, father, 
we shall not think of being married until it is quite agreeable to 
you ; and when we «?'e married, we shall always make you — of 
course — our first consideration. You must ever be the Head and 
Master here, father ; and we feel how truly unnatural it would be 
in us, if we failed to know it, or if we failed to exert ourselves in 
every possible way to please you." 

Mr. Turveydrop underwent a severe internal struggle, and came 
upright on the sofa again, Avith his cheeks puffing over his stiff" 
cravat : a perfect model of parental deportment. 

" My son ! " said Mr. Turveydrop. " My children ! I cannot 
resist your prayer. Be happy ! " 

His benignity, as he raised his future daughter-in-law and 
stretched out his hand to his son (who kissed it with affectionate 
respect and gratitude), was the most confusing sight I ever saw. 

"My children," said Mr. Turveydrop, paternally encircling 
Caddy with his left arm as she sat beside him, and putting his 
right hand gracefully on his hip. " My son and daughter, your 
happiness shall be my care. I will watch over you. You shall 
always live with me ; " meaning, of course, I will always live with 
you ; " this house is henceforth as much yours as mine ; consider 
it your home. May you long live to share it with me ! " 

The power of his Deportment was such, that they really were as 
much overcome with thankfulness, as if, instead of quartering him- 
self upon them for the rest of his life, he were making some munifi- 
cent sacrifice in their favour. 

" For myself, my children," said Mr. Turveydrop, " I am falling 
into the sear and yellow leaf, and it is impossible to say how long 
the last feeble traces of gentlemanly Deportment may linger in this 
wearing and spinning age. But, so long, I will do my duty to 
society, and will show myself, as usual, about town. My wants are 
few and simple. My little apartment here, my few essentials for 
the toilet, my frugal morning meal, and my little dinner, will 
suffice. I charge your dutiful affection with the supply of these 
requirements, and I charge myself with all the rest." 

They were overpowered afresh by his uncommon generosity. 




1/V- . V ^ // JyV 



BLEAK HOUSE. 307 

" My son," said Mr. Turveydrop, " for those little points in 
which you are deficient — points of Deportment which are born 
with a man — which may be improved by cultivation, but can 
never be originated — you may still rely on me. I have been faith- 
ful to my post, since the days of His Royal Highness the Prince 
Regent ; and I will not desert it now. No, my son. If you have 
ever contemplated your father's poor position with a feeling of 
pride, you may rest assured that he will do nothing to tarnish it. 
For yourself, Prince, whose character is different (we cannot be all 
alike, nor is it advisable that we should), work, be industrious, 
earn money, and extend the connection as much as possible." 

" That you may depend I wiU do, dear father, with all my 
heart," replied Prince. 

" I have no doubt of it," said Mr. Turveydrop. " Your quali- 
ties are not shining, my dear child, but they are steady and useful. 
And to both of you, my children, I would merely observe, in the 
spirit of a sainted Wooman on whose path I had the happiness of 
casting, I believe, some ray of light, — take care of the establish- 
ment, take care of my simple wants, and bless you both ! " 

Old Mr. Turveydrop then became so very gallant, in honour of 
the occasion, that I told Caddy we must really go to Thavies Inn 
at once if we were to go at all that day. So we took our depart- 
ure, after a very loving farewell between Caddy and her betrothed ; 
and during our walk she was so happy, and so full of old Mr. 
Turveydrop's praises, that I would not have said a word in his dis- 
paragement for any consideration. 

The house in Thavies Inn had bills in the windows announcing 
that it was to let, and it looked dirtier and gloomier and ghastlier 
than ever. The name of poor Mr. Jellyby had appeared in the 
list of Bankrupts, but a day or two before ; and he was shut up in 
the dining-room with two gentleman, and a heap of blue bags, 
account-books, and papers, making the most desperate endeavours 
to understand his affairs. They appeared to me to be quite 
beyond his comprehension; for when Caddy took me into the din- 
ing-room by mistake, and we came upon Mr. Jellyby in his spec- 
tacles, forlornly fenced into a corner by the great dining-table and 
the two gentlemen, he seemed to have given up the whole thing, 
and to be speechless and insensible. 

Going up-stairs to Mrs. Jellyby's room (the children were all 
screaming in the kitchen, and there was no servant to be seen), we 
found that lady in the midst of a voluminous correspondence, open- 
ing, reading, and sorting letters, with a great accumulation of torn 
covers on the floor. She was so pre-occupied that at first she did 
not know me, though she sat looking at me with that curious, 
bright-eyed, far-off look of hers. 



308 BLEAK HOUSE. 

" Ah ! Miss Summerson ! " she said at last. " I was thinking 
of something so different ! I hope you are well. I am happy to 
see you. Mr. Jarndyce and Miss Clare quite well 1 " 

I hoped in return that Mr. Jelly by was quite well. 

" Why, not quite, my dear," said Mrs. Jellyby, in the calmest 
manner. " He has been unfortunate in his affairs, and is a little 
out of spirits. Happily for me, I am so much engaged that I have 
no time to think about it. We have, at the present moment, one 
hundred and seventy families, Miss Summerson, averaging five 
persons in each, either gone or going to the left bank of the 
Niger." 

I thought of the one family so near us, who were neither gone 
nor going to the left bank of the Niger, and wondered how she 
could be so placid. 

"You have brought Caddy back, I see," observed Mrs. Jellyby, 
with a glance at her daughter. " It has become quite a novelty to 
see her here. She has almost deserted her old employment, and in 
fact obliges me to employ a boy." 

"I am sure. Ma, " began Caddy. 

"Now you know, Caddy," her mother mildly interposed, "that 
I do employ a boy, who is now at his dinner. What is the use of 
your contradicting ? " 

" I was not going to contradict. Ma," returned Caddy. "I was 
only going to say, that surely you wouldn't have me be a mere 
drudge all my life." 

"I believe, my dear," said Mrs. Jellyby, still opening her letters, 
casting her bright eyes smilingly over them, and sorting them as 
she spoke, " that you have a business example before you in your 
mother. Besides. A mere drudge? If you had any sympathy 
with the destinies of the human race, it would raise you high above 
any such idea. But you have none. I have often told you, Caddy, 
you have no such sympathy." 

" Not if it's Africa, Ma, I have not." 

" Of course you have not. Now, if I were not happily so much 
engaged. Miss Summerson," said Mrs. Jellyby, sweetly casting her 
eyes for a moment on me, and considering where to put the par- 
ticular letter she had just opened, " this would distress and disap- 
point me. But I have so much to think of, in connection with 
Borrioboola-Gha, and it is so necessary I should concentrate myself, 
that there is my remedy, you see." 

As Caddy gave me a glance of entreaty, and as Mrs. Jellyby was 
looking far away into Africa straight through my bonnet and head, 
I thought it a good opportunity to come to the subject of my visit, 
and to attract Mrs. Jellyby's attention. 



BLEAK HOUSE, 309 

"Perhaps," I began, "you will wonder what has brought me 
here to interrupt you." 

"I am always delighted to see Miss Summerson," said Mrs. 
Jelly by, pursuing her employment with a placid smile. " Though 
I wish," and she shook her head, "she was more interested in the 
Borrioboolan project." 

" I have come with Caddy," said I, " because Caddy justly 
thinks she ought not to have a secret from her mother ; and fancies 
I shall encourage and aid her (though I am sure I don't know how), 
in imparting one." 

" Caddy," said Mrs. Jellyby, pausing for a moment in her occu- 
pation, and then serenely pursuing it after shaking her head, " you 
are going to tell me some nonsense." 

Caddy untied the strings of her bonnet, took her bonnet off, and 
letting it dangle on the floor by the strings, and crying heartily, 
said, " Ma, I am engaged." 

" 0, you ridiculous child ! " observed Mrs. Jellyby, with an 
abstracted air, as she looked over the dispatch last opened ; " what 
a goose you are ! " 

"I am engaged. Ma," sobbed Caddy, "to young Mr. Turvey- 
drop, at the Academy; and old Mr. Turveydrop (who is a very 
gentlemanly man indeed) has given his consent, and I beg and pray 
you'll give us yours. Ma, because I never could be happy without 
it. I never, never could ! " sobbed Caddy, quite forgetful of her 
general complainings, and of everything but her natural affection. 

"You see again. Miss Summerson," observed Mrs. Jellyby, 
serenely, " what a happiness it is to be so much occupied as I am, 
and to have this necessity for self-concentration that I have. Here 
is Caddy engaged to a dancing-master's son — mixed up with peo- 
ple who have no more sympathy with the destinies of the human 
race than she has herself ! This, too, when Mr. Quale, one of the 
first philanthropists of our time, has mentioned to me that he was 
really disposed to be interested in her ! " 

" Ma, I always hated and detested Mr. Quale ! " sobbed Caddy. 

" Caddy, Caddy ! " returned Mrs. Jellyby, opening another letter 
with the greatest complacency. " I have no doubt, you did. 
How could you do otherwise, being totally destitute of the sympa- 
thies with which he overflows ! Now, if my public duties were 
not a favourite child to me, if I were not occupied with large 
measures on a vast scale, these petty details might grieve me very 
much, Miss Summerson. But can I permit the film of a silly 
proceeding on the part of Caddy (from whom I expect nothing 
else), to interpose between me and the great African continent 1 
No. No," repeated Mrs. Jellyby, in a calm clear voice, and with 



310 BLEAK HOUSE. 

an agreeable smile, as she opened more letters and sorted them. 
"No, indeed." 

I was so unprepared for the perfect coolness of this reception, 
though I might have expected it, that I did not know what to say. 
Caddy seemed equally at a loss. Mrs. Jellyby continued to open 
and sort letters; and to repeat occasionally, in quite a charming 
tone of voice, and with a smile of perfect composure, " No, indeed." 

" I hope. Ma," sobbed poor Caddy at last, " you are not angry 1 " 

" Caddy, you really are an absurd girl," returned Mrs. JeUyby, 
" to ask such questions, after what I have said of the pre-occupation 
of my mind." 

" And I hope. Ma, you give us your consent, and wish us well ?" 
said Caddy. 

"You are a nonsensical child, to have done anything of this 
kind," said Mrs. Jellyby ; " and a degenerate child, when you 
might have devoted yourself to the great public measure. But the 
step is taken, and I have engaged a boy, and there is no more to 
be said. Now, pray, Caddy," said Mrs. Jellyby — for Caddy was 
kissing her, " don't delay me in my work, but let me clear off this 
heavy batch of papers before the afternoon post comes in ! " 

I thought I could not do better than take my leave ; I was de- 
tained for a moment by Caddy's saying, 

" You won't object to my bringing him to see you, Ma 1 " 

"0 dear me, Caddy," cried Mrs. Jellyby, who had relapsed into 
that distant contemplation, " have you begun again ? Bring whom ? " 

" Him, Ma." 

" Caddy, Caddy ! " said Mrs. Jellyby, quite weary of such little 
matters. " Then you must bring him some evening which is not 
a Parent Society night, or a Branch night, or a Ramification night. 
You must accommodate the visit to the demands upon my time. 
My dear Miss Summerson, it was very kind of you to come here to 
help out this silly chit. Good bye ! When I tell you that I have 
fifty-eight new letters from manufacturing families anxious to under- 
stand the details of the Native and Coffee Cultivation question, 
this morning, I need not apologise for having very little leisure." 

I was not surprised by Caddy's being in low spirits, when we 
went down-stairs ; or by her sobbing afresh on my neck, or by her 
saying she would far rather have been scolded than treated with 
such indifference, or by her confiding to me that she was so poor in 
clothes, that how she was ever to be married creditably she didn't 
know. I gradually cheered her up, by dwelling on the many 
things she would do for her unfortunate father, and for Peepy, 
when she had a home of her own ; and finally we went down-stairs 
into the damp dark kitchen, where Peepy and his little brothers 



BLEAK HOUSE. 311 

and sisters were grovelling on the stone floor, and where we had 
such a game of play with them, that to prevent myself from being 
quite torn to pieces I was obliged to fall back on my fairy tales. 
From time to time, I heard loud voices in the parlour overhead; 
and occasionally a violent tumbling about of the furniture. The 
last effect I am afraid was caused by poor Mr. Jellyby's breaking 
away from the dining-table, and making rushes at the window, with 
the intention of throwing himself into the area, whenever he made 
any new attempt to understand his affairs. 

As I rode quietly home at night after the day's bustle, I thought 
a good deal of Caddy's engagement, and felt confirmed in my 
hopes (in spite of the elder Mr. Turveydrop) that she would be the 
happier and better for it. And if there seemed to be but a slender 
chance of her and her husband ever finding out what the model of 
Deportment really was, why that was all for the best too, and 
who would wish them to be wiser 1 I did not wish them to be any 
wiser, and indeed was half ashamed of not entirely believing in 
him myself. And I looked up at the stars, and thought about 
travellers in distant countries and the stars they saw, and hoped I 
might always be so blest and happy as to be useful to some one in 
my small way. 

They were so glad to see me when I got home, as they always 
were, that I could have sat down and cried for joy, if that had not 
been a method of making myself disagreeable. Everybody in the 
house, from the lowest to the highest, showed me such a bright face 
of welcome, and spoke so cheerily, and was so happy to do anything 
for me, that I suppose there never was such a fortunate little 
creature in the world. 

We got into such a chatty state that night, through Ada and 
my Guardian drawing me out to tell them all about Caddy, that I 
went on prose, prose, prosing, for a length of time. At last I got 
up to my own room, quite red to think how I had been holding 
forth ; and then I heard a soft tap at my door. So I said, " Come 
in ! " and there came in a pretty little girl, neatly dressed in mourn- 
ing, who dropped a curtsey. 

" If you please, miss," said the little girl, in a soft voice, " I am 
Charley." 

"Why, so you are," said I, stooping down in astonishment, and 
giving her a kiss. " How glad I am to see you, Charley ! " 

"If you please, miss," pursued Charley, in the same soft voice, 
" I'm your maid." 

" Charley 1 " 

" If you please, miss, I'm a present to you, with Mr. Jamdyce's 
love." 



312 BLEAK HOUSE. 

I sat down with my hand on Charley's neck, and looked at 
Charley. 

"And 0, miss," says Charley, clapping her hands, with the tears 
starting down her dimpled cheeks, " Tom's at school, if you please, 
and learning so good ! And little Emma, she's with Mrs. Blinder, 
miss, a being took such care of ! And Tom, he would have been 
at school — and Emma, she would have been left with Mrs. Blinder 
— and me, I should have been here — all a deal sooner, miss ; 
only Mr. Janidyce thought that Tom and Emma and me had better 
get a little used to parting first, we was so small. Don't cry, if 
you please, miss ! " 

" I can't help it, Charley." 

" No, miss, nor I can't help it," says Charley. " And if you 
please, miss, Mr. Jarndyce's love, and he thinks you'll like to 
teach me now and then. And if you please, Tom and Emma and 
me is to see each other once a month. And I'm so happy and bo 
thankful, miss," cried Charley with a heaving heart, "and I'll try 
to be such a good maid ! " 

" Charley dear, never forget who did all this ! " 

" No, miss, I never will. Nor Tom won't. Nor yet Emma. 
It was all you, miss." 

"I have known nothing of it. It was Mr. Jarndyce, Charley." 

"Yes, miss, but it was all done for the love of you, and that 
you might be my mistress. If you please, miss, I am a little 
present with his love, and it was aU done for the love of you. Me 
and Tom was to be sure to remember it." 

Charley dried her eyes, and entered on her functions : going in 
her matronly little way .about and about the room, and folding up 
everything she could lay her hands upon. Presently, Charley came 
creeping back to my side, and said : 

" don't cry, if you please, miss." 

And I said again, " I can't help it, Charley." 

And Charley said again, "No, miss, nor I can't help it." And 
so, after all, I did cry for joy indeed, and so did she. 



CHAPTER XXIV. 

AN APPEAL CASE. 

As soon as Richard and I had held the conversation of which I 
have given an account, Richard communicated the state of his mind 
to Mr. Jarndyce. I doubt if my Guardian were altogether taken 



BLEAK HOUSE. 318 

by surprise, when he received the representation; though it caused 
him much uneasiness and disappointment. He and Richard were 
often closeted together, late at night and early in the morning, and 
passed whole days in London, and had innumerable appointments 
with Mr. Kenge, and laboured through a quantity of disagreeable 
business. While they were thus employed, my Guardian, though 
he underwent considerable inconvenience from the state of the 
wind, and rubbed his head so constantly that not a single hair 
upon it ever rested in its right place, was as genial with Ada and 
me as at any other time, but maintained a steady reserve on these 
matters. And as our utmost endeavours could only elicit from 
Richard himself sweeping assurances that everything was going on 
capitally, and that it really was all right at last, our anxiety was 
not much relieved by him. 

We learnt, however, as the time went on, that a new application 
was made to the Lord Chancellor on Richard's behalf, as an Infant 
and a Ward, and I don't know what ; and that there was a quan- 
tity of talking; and that the Lord Chancellor described him, in 
open court, as a vexatious and capricious infant ; and that the 
matter was adjourned and readjourned, and referred, and reported 
on, and petitioned about, until Richard began to doubt (as he told 
us) whether, if he entered the army at all, it would not be as a 
veteran of seventy or eighty years of age. At last an appointment 
was made for him to see the Lord Chancellor again in his private 
room, and there the Lord Chancellor very seriously reproved him 
for trifling with time, and not knowing his mind — " a pretty good 
joke, I think," said Richard, "from that quarter!" — and at last 
it was settled that his application should be granted. His name 
was entered at the Horse Guards, as an applicant for an Ensign's 
commission ; the purchase-money was deposited at an Agent's ; and 
Richard, in his usual characteristic way, plunged into a violent 
course of military study, and got up at five o'clock every morning 
to practise the broad-sword exercise. 

Thus, vacation succeeded term, and term succeeded vacation. 
We sometimes heard of Jarndyce and Jarndyce, as being in the 
paper or out of the paper, or as being to be mentioned, or as being 
to be spoken to ; and it came on, and it went off. Richard, who 
was now in a Professor's house in London, was able to be with 
us less frequently than before ; my Guardian still maintained the 
same reserve : and so time passed until the commission was ob- 
tained, and Richard received directions with it to join a regiment 
in Ireland. 

He arrived post-haste with the intelligence one evening, and had 
a long conference with my Guardian. Upwards of an hour elapsed 



314 BLEAK HOUSE. 

before my Guardian put his head into the room where Ada and I 
were sitting, and said, " Come in, my dears ! " We went in, and 
found Eichard, whom we had last seen in high spirits, leaning on 
the chimney-piece, looking mortified and angry. 

"Rick and I, Ada," said Mr. Jarndyce, "are not quite of one 
mind. Come, come. Rick, put a brighter face upon it ! " 

"You are very hard with me, sir," said Richard. " The harder, 
because you have been so considerate to me in all other respects, 
and have done me kindnesses that I can never acknowledge. I 
never could have been set right without you, sir." 

" Well, well ! " said Mr. Jarndyce, " I want to set you more 
right yet. I want to set you more right with yourself" 

"I hope you will excuse my saying, sir," returned Richard in a 
fiery way, but yet respectfully, " that I think I am the best judge 
about myself" 

" I hope you will excuse my saying, my dear Rick," observed 
Mr. Jarndyce with the sweetest cheerfulness and good humour, 
" that it's quite natural in you to think so, but I don't think so. 
I must do my duty. Rick, or you could never care for me in cool 
blood ; and I hope you will always care for me, cool and hot." 

Ada had turned so pale, that he made her sit down in his read- 
ing-chair, and sat beside her. 

"It's nothing, my dear," he said, "it's nothing. Rick and I 
have only had a friendly difference, which we must state to you, 
for you are the theme. Now you are afraid of what's coming." 

"I am not indeed, cousin John," replied Ada, with a smUe, "if 
it is to come from you." 

" Thank you, my dear. Do you give me a minute's calm atten- 
tion, without looking "at Rick. And, little woman, do you like- 
wise. My dear girl," putting his hand on hers, as it lay on the 
side of the easy-chair, "you recollect the talk we had, we four, 
when the little woman told me of a little love-affair ? " 

" It is not Ukely that either Richard or I can ever forget your 
kindness, that day, cousin John." 

"I can never forget it," said Richard. 

"And I can never forget it," said Ada. 

" So much the easier what I have to say, and so much the 
easier for us to agree," returned my Guardian, his face irradiated ; 
by the gentleness and honoixr of his heart. " Ada, my bird, you 
should know that Rick has now chosen his profession for the 
last time. All that he has of certainty will be expended when 
he is fully equipped. He has exhausted his resources, and is bound 
henceforward to the tree he has planted." 

" Quite true that I have exhausted ray present resources, and I 



BLEAK HOUSE. S15 

am quite content to know it. But what I have of certainty, sir," 
said Richard, " is not all I have." 

" Rick, Rick ! " cried my Guardian, with a sudden terror in his 
manner, and in an altered voice, and putting up his hands as if he 
would have stopped his ears, " for the love of God, don't found a 
hope or expectation on the family curse ! Whatever you do on 
this side the grave, never give one lingering glance towards the 
horrible phantom that has haunted us so many years. Better to 
borrow, better to beg, better to die ! " 

We were all startled by the fervour of this warning. Richard bit 
his lip and held his breath, and glanced at me, as if he felt, and 
knew that I felt too, how much he needed it. 

" Ada, my dear," said Mr. Jarndyce, recovering his cheerfulness, 
" these are strong words of advice ; but I live in Bleak House, 
and have seen a sight here. Enough of that. All Richard had, 
to start him in the race of life, is ventured. I recommend to him 
and you, for his sake and your own, that he should depart from us 
with the understanding that there is no sort of contract between 
you. I must go further. I will be plain with you both. You 
were to confide freely in me, and I will confide freely in you. I 
ask you wholly to relinquish, for the present, any tie but your 
relationship." 

"Better to say at once, sir," returned Richard, "that you 
renounce all confidence in me, and that you advise Ada to do the 
same." 

" Better to say nothing of the sort. Rick, because I don't 
mean it." 

" You think I have begun ill, sir," retorted Richard. " I have, 
I know." 

"How I hoped you would begin, and how go on, I told you 
when we spoke of these things last," said Mr. Jarndyce, in a cordial 
and encouraging manner. "You have not made that beginning 
yet ; but there is a time for all things, and yours is not gone by — 
rather, it is just now fully come. Make a clear beginning altogether. 
You two (very young, my dears) are cousins. As yet, you are noth- 
ing more. What more may come, must come of being worked out, 
Rick ; and no sooner." 

"You are very Jiard with me, sir," said Richard. "Harder 
than I could have supposed you would be." 

"My dear boy," said Mr. Jarndyce, "I am harder with myself 
when I do anything that gives you pain. You have your remedy in 
your own hands. Ada, it is better for him that he should be free, 
and that there should be no youthful engagement between you. 
Rick, it is better for her, much better ; you owe it to her. Come ! 



316 BLEAK HOUSE. 

Each of you will do what is best for the other, if not what is best 
for yourselves." 

"Why is it best, sir"?" returned Richard, hastily. "It was 
not, when we opened our hearts to you. You did not say so, 
then." 

" I have had experience since. I don't blame you, Rick — but 
I have had experience since." 

" You mean of me, sir." 

" Well ! Yes, of both of you," said Mr. Jarndyce, kindly. 
" The time is not come for your standing pledged to one another. 
It is not right, and I must not recognise it. Come, come, my 
young cousins, begin afresh ! Byegoues shall be byegones, and a 
new page turned for you to write your lives in." 

Richard gave an anxious glance at Ada, but said nothing. 

" I have avoided saying one word to either of you, or to Esther," 
said Mr. Jarndyce, " until now, in order that we might be open as 
the day, and all on equal terms. I now affectionately advise, I 
now most earnestly entreat, you two, to part as you came here. 
Leave all else to time, truth, and steadfastness. If you do other- 
wise, you will do wrong ; and you will have made me do wrong, in 
ever bringing you together." 

A long silence succeeded. 

" Cousin Richard," said Ada, then, raising her blue eyes ten- 
derly to his face, " after what our cousin John has said, I think no 
choice is left us. Your mind may be quite at ease about me ; for 
you will leave me here under his care, and will be sure that I can 
have nothing to wish for; quite sure, if I guide myself by his 
advice. I — I don't doubt, cousin Richard," said Ada, a little 
confused, " that you are very fond of me, and I — I don't think 
you will fall in love with anybody else. But I should like you to 
consider well about it, too ; as I should like you to be in all things 
very happy. You may trust in me, cousin Richard. I am not at 
all changeable ; but I am not unreasonable, and should never blame 
you. Even cousins may be sorry to part ; and in truth, I am very, 
very sorry, Richard, though I know it's for your welfare. I shall 
always think of you affectionately, and often talk of you with 
Esther, and — and perhaps you will sometimes think a little of 
me, cousin Richard. So now," said Ada, going up to him and giving 
him her trembling hand, "we are only cousins again, Richard — 
for the time perhaps — and I pray for a blessing on my dear 
cousin, wherever he goes ! " 

It was strange to me that Richard should not be able to forgive 
my Guardian, for entertaining the very same opinion of him which 
he himself had expressed of himself in much stronger terms to me. 



BLEAK HOUSE. 317 

But, it was certainly the case. I observed, with great regret, that 
from this hour he never was as free and open with Mr. Jarndyce as 
he had been before. He had every reason given him to be so, but 
he was not ; and, solely on his side, an estrangement began to 
arise between them. 

In the business of preparation and equipment he soon lost him- 
self, and even his grief at parting from Ada, who remained in Hert- 
fordshire, while he, Mr. Jarndyce, and I went up to London for a 
week. He remembered her by fits and starts, even with bursts of 
tears ; and at such times would confide to me the heaviest self- 
reproaches. But, in a few minutes he would recklessly conjure up 
some undefinable means by which they were both to be made rich 
and happy for ever, and would become as gay as possible. 

It was a busy time, and I trotted about with him all day long, 
buying a variety of things, of which he stood in need. Of the 
things he would have bought, if he had been left to his own ways, 
I say nothing. He was perfectly confidential with me, and often 
talked so sensibly and feelingly about his faults and his vigorous 
resolutions, and dwelt so much upon the encouragement he derived 
from these conversations, that I coidd never have been tired if I 
had tried. 

There used, in that week, to come backward and forward to our 
lodging, to fence with Richard, a person who had formerly been a 
cavalry soldier ; he was a fine bluff-looking man, of a frank free 
bearing, with whom Richard had practised for some months. I 
heard so much about him, not only from Richard, but from my 
Guardian too, that I was purposely in the room, with my work, 
one morning after breakfast when he came. 

"Good morning, Mr. George," said my Guardian, who happened 
to be alone with me. "Mr. Carstone will be here directly. Mean- 
while, Miss Summerson is very happy to see you, I know. Sit 
down." 

He sat down, a little disconcerted by my presence, I thought ; 
and, without looking at me, drew his heavy sunburnt hand across 
and across his upper lip. 

" You are as punctual as the sun," said Mr. Jarndyce. 

" Military time, sir," he replied. " Force of habit. A mere 
habit in me, sir. I am not at all business-like." 

"Yet you have a large establishment, too, I am told?" said 
Mr. Jarndyce. 

, " Not much of a one, sir. I keep a shooting gallery, but not 
much of a one." 

" And what kind of a shot, and what kind of a swordsman, do 
yoxx make of Mr. Carstone ? " said my Guardian. 



318 BLEAK HOUSE. 

" Pretty good, sir," he replied, folding his arms upon his broad 
chest, and looking very large. " If Mr. Carstone was to give his 
full mind to it, he would come out very good." 

" But he don't, I suppose 1 " said my Guardian. 

" He did at first, sir, but not afterwards. Not his full mind. 
Perhaps he has something else upon it — some young lady, per- 
haps." His bright dark eyes glanced at me for the first time. 

"He has not me upon his mind, I assure you, Mr. George," 
said I, laughing, "though you seem to suspect me." 

He reddened a little through his brown, and made me a 
trooper's bow. "No offence, I hope, miss. I am one of the 
Roughs." 

" Not at all," said I. "I take it as a compliment." 

If he had not looked at me before, he looked at me now, in 
three or four quick successive glances. "I beg your pardon, sir," 
he said to my Guardian, with a manly kind of diffidence, " but you 
did me the honour to mention the young lady's name " 

"Miss Summerson." 

" Miss Summerson," he repeated, and looked at me again. 

" Do you know the name ? " I asked. 

" No, miss. To my knowledge, I never heard it. I thought I 
had seen you somewhere." 

" I think not," I returned, raising my head from my work to 
look at him ; and there was something so genuine in his speech 
and manner, that I was glad of the opportunity. " I remember 
faces very well." 

" So do I, miss ! " he returned, meeting my look with the fulness 
of his dark eyes and broad forehead. " Humph ! What set me 
off, now, upon that ! " 

His once more reddening through his brown, and being discon- 
certed by his efforts to remember the association, brought my 
Guardian to his relief 

" Have you many pupils, Mr. George ? " 

" They vary in their number, sir. Mostly, they're but a small 
lot to hve by." 

" And what classes of chance people come to practise at your 
gallery ? " 

"All sorts, sir. Natives and foreigners. From gentlemen to 
'prentices. I have had French women come, before now, and show 
themselves dabs at pistol-shooting. Mad people out of number, of 
course — but the?/ go everywhere, where the doors stand open." 

" People don't come with grudges, and schemes of finishing their 
practice with live targets, I hope ? " said my Guardian, smiling. 

" Not much of that, sir, though that has happened. Mostly they 



BLEAK HOUSE. 319 

come for skill — or idleness. Six of one, and half-a-dozen of the 
other. I beg your pardon," said Mr. George, sitting stiffly upright, 
and squaring an elbow on each knee, " but I believe you're a 
Chancery suitor, if I have heard correct ? " 

" I am sorry to say I am." 

" I have had one of your compatriots in my time, sir." 

' ' A Chancery suitor ? ' ' returned my Guardian. ' ' How was that ? " 

" Why, the man was so badgered, and worried, and tortured, by 
being knocked about from post to pillar, and from pillar to post," 
said Mr. George, " that he got out of sorts. I don't believe he had 
any idea of taking aim at anybody ; but he was in that condition 
of resentment and violence, that he would come and pay for fifty 
shots, and fire away till he was red hot. One day I said to him, 
when there was nobody by, and he had been talking to me angrily 
about his wrongs, ' If this practice is a safety-valve, comrade, well 
and good ; but I don't altogether like your being so bent upon it, 
in your present state of mind ; I'd rather you took to something 
else.' I was on my guard for a blow, he was that passionate ; but 
he received it in very good part, and left ofi" directly. We shook 
hands, and struck up a sort of friendship." 

" What was that man ? " asked my Guardian, in a new tone of 
interest. 

"Why, he began by being a small Shropshire farmer, before 
they made a baited bull of him," said Mr. George. 

"Was his name Gridley?" 

" It was, sir." 

Mr. George directed another succession of quick bright glances 
at me, as my Guardian and I exchanged a word or two of surprise 
at the coincidence ; and I therefore explained to him how we knew 
the name. He made me another of his soldierly bows, in acknowl- 
edgment of what he called my condescension. 

"I don't know," he said, as he looked at me, "what it is that 
sets me off" again — but — bosh ! what's my head running against ! " 
He passed one of his heavy hands over his crisp dark hair, as if to 
sweep the broken thoughts ovit of his mind ; and sat a little for- 
,ward, with one arm akimbo and the other resting on his leg, look- 
ing in a brown study at the ground. 

,, " I am sorry to learn that the same state of mind has got 
-jthis Gridley into new troubles, and that he is in hiding," said my 
jGuardian. 

"So I am told, sir," returned Mr. George, still musing and 
,;l()oking on the ground. "So I am told." 

" You don't know where % " 

"No, sir/' returned the trooper, lifting up his eyes and coming 



320 BLEAK HOUSE. 

out of his reverie. " I can't say anything about him. He will be 
worn out soon, I expect. You may file a strong man's heart away 
for a good many years, but it will tell all of a sudden at last. " 

Richard's entrance stopped the conversation. Mr. G-eorge rose, 
made me another of his soldierly bows, wished my Guardian a 
good day, and strode heavily out of the room. 

This was the morning of the day appointed for Richard's de- 
parture. We had no more purchases to make now; I had com- 
pleted all his packing early in the afternoon ; and our time was 
disengaged until night, when he was to go to Liverpool for Holy-, 
head. Jarndyce and Jarndyce being again expected to come on 
that day, Richard proposed to me that we should go down to the 
Court and hear what passed. As it was his last day, and he was 
eager to go, and I had never been there, I gave my consent, and 
we walked down to Westminster, where the Court was then sit- 
ting. We beguiled the way with arrangements concerning the let- 
ters that Richard was to write to me, and the letters that I was to 
write to him ; and with a great many hopeful projects. My Guar- 
dian knew where we were going, and therefore was not with us. 

When we came to the Court, there was the Lord Chancellor — - 
the same whom I had seen in his private room in Lincoln's Inn — 
sitting, in great state and gravity, on the bench ; with the mace 
and seals on a red table below him, and an immense flat nosegay, 
like a little garden, which scented the whole Court. Below the 
table, again, was a long row of solicitors, with bundles of papers 
on the matting at their feet ; and then there were the gentlemen 
of the bar in wigs and gowns — some awake and some asleep, 
and one talking, and nobody paying much attention to what he 
said. The Lord Chancellor leaned back in his very easy chair, 
with his elbow on the cushioned arm, and his forehead resting on 
his hand ; some of those who were present dozed ; some read the 
newspapers ; some walked about, or whispered in groups : all 
seemed perfectly at their ease, by no means in a hurry, very uncon- 
cerned, and extremely comfortable. 

To see everything going on so smoothly, and to think of the 
roughness of the suitors' lives and deaths ; to see all that full 
dress and ceremony, and to think of the waste, and want, and beg- 
gared misery it represented ; to consider that, while the sickness 
of hope deferred was raging in so many hearts, this polite show 
went calmly on from day to day, and year to year, in such good 
order and composure ; to behold the Lord Chancellor, and the whole 
array of practitioners under him, looking at one another and at the 
spectators, as if nobody had ever heard that all over England the 
name in which they were assembled was a bitter jest ; was held in 



BLEAK HOUSE. 321 

universal horror, contempt, and indignation ; was known for some- 
thing so flagrant and bad, that little short of a miracle could bring 
any good out of it to any one : this was so curious and self-con- 
tradictory to me, who had no experience of it, that it was at first 
incredible, and I could not comprehend it. I sat where Richard 
put me, and tried to listen, and looked about me ; but there seemed 
to be no reality in the whole scene, except poor little Miss Flite, 
the madwoman, standing on a bench, and nodding at it. 

Miss Flite soon espied us, and came to where we sat. She gave 
me a gracious welcome to her domain, and indicated, with much 
gratification and pride, its principal attractions. Mr. Kenge also 
came to speak to us, and did the honours of the place in much the 
same way ; with the bland modesty of a proprietor. It was not a 
very good day for a visit, he said ; he would have preferred the 
first day of term ; but it was imposing, it was imposing. 

When we had been there half an hour or so, the case in progress 
— if I may use a phrase so ridiculous in such a connection — 
seemed to die out of its own vapidity, without coming, or being by 
anybody expected to come, to any result. The Lord Chancellor 
then threw down a bundle of papers from his desk to the gentle- 
men below him, and somebody said, " Jarndyce and Jarndyce." 
Upon this there was a buzz, and a laugh, and a general withdrawal 
of the bystanders, and a bringing in of great heaps, and piles, and 
bags and bags-full of papers. 

I think it came on "for further directions," — about some bill of 
costs, to the best of my understanding, which was confused enough. 
But I counted twenty-three gentlemen in wigs, who said they were 
" in it ; " and none of them appeared to understand it much better 
than I. They chatted about it with the Lord Chancellor, and con- 
tradicted and explained among themselves, and some of them said 
it was this way, and some of them said it was that way, and some 
of them jocosely proposed to read huge volumes of aflidavits, and 
there was more buzzing and laughing, and everybody concerned was 
in a state of idle entertainment, and nothing could be made of it 
by anybody. After an hour or so of this, and a good many speeches 
being begun and cut short, it was " referred back for the present," 
as Mr. Kenge said, and the papers were bundled up again, before 
the clerks had finished bringing them in. 

I glanced at Richard, on the termination of these hopeless pro- 
ceedings, and was shocked to see the worn look of his handsome 
young face. " It can't last for ever. Dame Burden. Better luck 
next time ! " was all he said. 

I had seen Mr. Guppy bringing in papers, and arranging them 
for Mr. Kenge ; and he had seen me and made me a forlorn bow, 



322 BLEAK HOUSE. 

which rendered me desirous to get out of the Court. Richard 
had given me his arm, and was taking me away, when Mr. Guppy 
came up. 

"I beg your pardon, Mr. Carstone," said he in a whisper, "and 
Miss Summerson's also ; but there's a lady here, a friend of mine, 
who knows her, and wishes to have the pleasure of shaking hands." 
As he spoke, I saw before me, as if she had started into bodily 
shape from my remembrance, Mrs. Rachael of my godmother's house. 

" How do you do, Esther ? " said she. " Do you recoUec ". me ? " 

I gave her my hand, and told her yes, and that she w s very 
little altered. 

" I wonder you remember those times, Esther," she returned with 
her old asperity. " They are changed now. Well ! I am ^lad to 
see you, and glad you are not too proud to know me." But, indeed 
she seemed disapiDointed that I was not. • 

" Proud, Mrs. Rachael ! " I remonstrated. 

" I am married, Esther," she returned, coldly correcting me " and 
am Mrs. Chadband. Well ! I wish you good day, and I hope, you'll 
do well." 

Mr. Guppy, who had been attentive to this short dialogue, heaved 
a sigh in my ear, and elbowed his own and Mrs. Rachael'fs way 
through the confused little crowd of people coming in and going 
out, which we were in the midst of, and which the change in the 
business had brought together. Richard and I were making our 
way through it, and I was yet in the first chill of the late unex- 
pected recognition, when I saw, coming towards us, but not seeing 
us, no less a person than Mr. George. He made nothing of the 
people about him as he tramped on, staring over their heads, into 
the body of the Court. 

" George ! " said Richard, as I called his attention to him. 

" You are well met, sir," he returned. " And you, miss. Could 
you point a person out for me, I want ? I don't understand these 
places." 

Turning as he spoke, and making an easy way for us, he stopped 
when we were out of the press, in a corner behind a great red curtain. 

" There's a little cracked old woman," he began, "that " 

I put up my finger, for Miss Elite was close by me ; having kept 
beside me all the time, and having called the attention of several 
of her legal acquaintance to me (as I had overheard to my con- 
fusion), by whispering in their ears, "Hush ! Fitz-Jarndyce on my 
left ! " 

" Hem ! " said Mr. George. " You remember, miss, that we passed 
some conversation on a certain man this morning 1 — Gridley," in a 
low whisper behind his hand. 



BLEAK HOUSE. 323 

"Yes," said I. 

"He is hiding at my place. I couldn't mention it. Hadn't his 
authority. He is on his last march, miss, and has a whim to see 
her. He says they can feel for one another, and she has been 
almost as good as a friend to him here. I came down to look for 
her ; for when I sat by Gridley this afternoon, I seemed to hear the 
roll of the muffled drums." 

" SI all I tell her ?" said I. 

" Y ould yoi; be so good 1 " he returned, with a glance of some- 
thing ' ike apprehension at Miss Flite. " It's a Providence I met 
you, miss ; I doubt if I should have known how to get on with 
that Ir'dy." And he put one hand in his breast, and stood upright 
in a n artial attitude, as I informed little Miss Flite, in her ear, of 
the pi rport of his kind errand. 

" J y angry friend from Shropshire ! Almost as celebrated as 
myseL' ! " she exclaimed. " Now really ! My dear, I will wait upon 
him "\ dth the greatest pleasure." 

" He is living concealed at Mr. George's," said I. " Hush ! This 
is Ml. George." 

" In — deed ! " returned Miss Flite. " Very proud to have the 
honour ! A military man, my dear. You know, a perfect General ! " 
she whispered to me. 

Poor Miss Flite deemed it necessary to be so courtly and polite, 
as a mark of her respect for the army, and to curtsey so very often, 
that it was no easy matter to get her out of the Court. When this 
was at last done, and addressing Mr. George, as " General," she gave 
him her arm, to the great entertainment of some idlers who were 
looking on, he was so discomposed, and begged me so respectfully 
" not to desert him," that I could not make vip my mind to do it ; 
especially as Miss Flite was always tractable with me, and as she 
too said, " Fitz-Jarndyce, my dear, you will accompany us, of course." 
As Richard seemed quite willing, and even anxious, that we should 
see them safely to their destination, we agreed to do so. And as 
Mr. George informed us that Gridley's mind had run on Mr. Jam- 
dyce all the afternoon, after hearing of their interview in the morn- 
ing, I wrote a hasty note in pencil to my Guardian to say where we 
were gone, and vrhj. Mr. George sealed it at a coffee-house, that 
it might lead to no discovery, and we sent it off by a ticket-porter. 

We then took a hackney-coach, and drove away to the neighbour- 
hood of Leicester Square. We walked through some narrow courts, 
for which Mr. George apologised, and soon came to the Shooting 
Gallery, the door of which was closed. As he pulled a bell-handle 
which hung by a chain to the door-post, a very respectable old gen- 
tleman, with grey hair, wearing spectacles, and dressed in a black 



324 BLEAK HOUSE. 

spencer and gaiters and a broad-brimmed hat, and carrying a large 
gold-headed cane, addressed him. 

"I ask your pardon, my good friend," said he; "but is this 
George's Shooting Galleiy ? " 

" It is, sir," returned Mr. George, glancing up at the great letters 
in which that inscription was painted on the whitewashed wall. 

"Oh ! To be sure ! " said the old gentleman, following his eyes. 
" Thank you. Have you rung the bell?" 

" My name is George, sir, and I have rung the bell." 

" Oh, indeed ? " said the old gentleman. " Your name is George ? 
Then I am here as soon as jow, you see. You came for me, no 
doubt?" 

" No, sir. You have the advantage of me." 

" Oh, indeed ? " said the old gentleman. " Then it was your 
young man who came for me. I am a physician, and was requested 
— five minutes ago — to come and visit a sick man, at George's 
Shooting Gallery." 

" The muffled drums," said Mr. George, turning to Richard and 
me, and gravely shaking his head. " It's quite correct, sir. Will 
you please to walk in." 

The door being at that moment opened, by a very singular-look- 
ing little man in a green baize cap and apron, whose face, and 
hands, and dress, were blackened all over, we passed along a dreary 
passage into a large building with bare brick walls ; where there 
were targets, and guns, and swords, and other things of that kind. 
When we had all arrived here, the physician stopped, and, taking 
off his hat, appeared to vanish by magic, and to leave another and 
quite a different man in his place. 

" Now look'ee here, George," said the man, turning quickly round 
upon him, and tapping him on the breast with a large forefinger. 
" You know me, and I know you. You're a man of the world, 
and I'm a man of the world. My name's Bucket, as you are 
aware, and I have got a peace-warrant against Gridley. You have 
kept him out of the way a long time, and you have been artful in 
it, and it does you credit." 

Mr. George, looking hard at him, bit his lip and shook his 
head. 

"Now, George," said the other, keeping close to him, "you're a 
sensible man, and a well-conducted man ; that's what i/ou are, 
beyond a doubt. And mind you, I don't talk to you as a common 
character, because you have served your country, and you know 
that when duty calls we must obey. Consequeatly, you're very 
far from wanting to give trouble. If I required assistance, you'd 
assist me ; that's what you'd do. Phil Squod, don't you go 



BLEAK HOUSE. 325 

a sidling round the gallery like that ; " the dirty little man was 
shuffling about with his shoulder against the wall, and his eyes on 
the intruder, in a manner that looked threatening; "because I 
know you, and I won't have it." 

" Phil ! " said Mr. George. 

"Yes, guv'ner." 

" Be quiet." 

The little man, with a low growl, stood still. 

"Ladies and gentlemen," said Mr. Bucket, "you'll excuse any- 
thing that may appear to be disagreeable in this, for my name's 
Inspector Bucket of the Detective, and I have a duty to perform. 
George, I know where my man is, because I was on the roof last 
night, and saw him through the skylight, and you along with him. 
He is in there, you know," pointing; " that's where he is — on a 
sofy. Now I must see my man, and I must tell my man to con- 
sider himself in custody ; but, you know me, and you know I don't 
want to take any uncomfortable measures. You give me your 
word, as from one man to another (and an old soldier, mind you, 
likewise !), that it's honourable between us two, and I'll accommo- 
date you to the utmost of my power." 

" I give it," was the reply. " But it wasn't handsome in you, 
Mr. Bucket." 

" Gammon, George ! Not handsome ? " said Mr. Bucket, tapping 
him on his broad breast again, and shaking hands with him. " I 
don't say it wasn't handsome in you to keep my man so close, do 
I ? Be equally good-tempered to me, old boy ! Old William Tell ! 
Old Shaw, the Life Guardsman ! Why, he's a model of the whole 
British army in himself, ladies and gentlemen. I'd give a fifty- 
pun' note to be such a figure of a man ! " 

The affair being brought to this head, Mr. George, after a little 
consideration, proposed to go in first to his comrade (as he called 
him), taking Miss Flite with him. Mr. Bucket agi'eeing, they 
went away to the further end of the gallery, leaving us sitting and 
standing by a table covered with guns. Mr. Bucket took this 
opportunity of entering into a little light conversation : asking me 
if I were afraid of fire-arms, as most young ladies were ; asking 
Richard if he were a good shot ; asking Phil Squod which he con- 
sidered the best of those rifles, and what it might be worth, first- 
hand ; telling him, in return, that it was a pity he ever gave way 
to his temper, for he was naturally so amiable, that he might have 
been a young woman ; and making himself generally agreeable. 

After a time he followed us to the further end of the gallery, 
and Richard and I were going quietly away, when Mr. George 
came after us. He said that if we had no objection to see his 



326 BLEAK HOUSE. 

comrade, he would take a visit from us veiy kindly. The words 
had hardly passed his lips, when the bell was rung, and my Guar- 
dian appeared; "on the chance," he slightly observed, "of being 
able to do any little thing for a poor fellow involved in the same 
misfortune as himself" We all four went back together, and went 
into the place where Gridley was. 

It was a bare room, partitioned off from the gallery with un- 
painted wood. As the screening was not more than eight or ten 
feet high, and only enclosed the sides, not the top, the rafters of 
the high gallery roof were overhead, and the skylight, through 
which Mr. Bucket had looked down. The siui was low — near 
setting — and its light came redly in above, without descending to 
the ground. Upon a plain canvas-covered sofa lay the man from 
Shropshire — dressed much as we had seen him last, but so changed, 
that at first I recognised no likeness in his colourless face to what 
I recollected. 

He had been still writing in his hiding-place, and still dwelling 
on his grievances, hour after hour. A table and some shelves were 
covered with manuscript papers, and with worn pens, and a medley 
of such tokens. Touchingly and awfully drawn together, he and 
the little mad woman were side by side, and, as it were, alone. 
She sat on a chair holding his hand, and none of us went close to 
them. 

His voice had faded, with the old expression of his face, with 
his strength, with his anger, with his resistance to the wrongs that 
had at last subdued him. The faintest shadow of an object full of 
form and colour, is such a picture of it, as he was of the man from 
Shropshire whom we had spoken with before. 

He inclined his head to Richard and me, and spoke to my Guar- 
dian. 

" Mr. Jarndyce, it is very kind of you to come to see me. I am 
not long to be seen, I think. I am very glad to take your hand, 
sir. You are a good man, superior to injustice, and God knows I 
honour you." 

They shook hands earnestly, and my Guardian said some words 
of comfort to him. 

" It may seem strange to you, sir," returned Gridley ; "I should 
not have liked to see you, if this had been the first time of our 
meeting. But, you know I made a fight for it, you know I stood 
up with my single hand against them all, you know I told them 
the truth to the last, and told them what they were, and what 
they had done to me ; so I don't mind your seeing me, this wreck." 

" You have been courageous with them, many and many a time," 
returned my Guardian. 



BLEAK HOUSE. 327 

" Sir, I have been ; " with a faint smile. " I told you what 
would come of it, when I ceased to be so ; and, see here ! Look 
at us — look at us ! " He drew the hand Miss Flite held, through 
her arm, and brought her something nearer to him. 

" This ends it. Of all my old associations, of all my old pur- 
suits and hopes, of all the living and the dead world, this one poor 
soul alone comes natural to me, and I am fit for. There is a tie 
of many suffering years between us two, and it is the only tie I 
ever had on earth that Chancery has not broken." 

"Accept my blessing, Gridley," said Miss Flite, in tears. 
" Accept my blessing ! " 

" I thought, boastfully, that they never could break my heart, 
Mr. Jarndyce. I was resolved that they should not. I did believe 
that I could, and would, charge them with being the mockery they 
were, until I died of some bodily disorder. But I am worn out. 
How long I have been wearing out, I don't know ; I seemed to 
break down in an hour. I hope they may never come to hear of it. 
I hope everybody, here, will lead them to believe that I died defy- 
ing them, consistently and perseveringly, as I did through so 
many years." 

Here Mr. Bucket, who was sitting in a corner, by the door, 
good-naturedly offered such consolation as he could administer. 

" Come, come ! " he said, from his corner. " Don't go on in that 
way, Mr. Gridley. You are only a little low. We are all of us a 
little low, sometimes. / am. Hold up, hold up ! You'll lose 
your temper with the whole round of 'em, again and again ; and I 
shall take you on a score of warrants yet, if I have luck." 

He only shook his head. 

"Don't shake your head," said Mr. Bucket. "Nod it; that's 
what I want to see you do. Why, Lord bless your soul, what 
times we have had together ! Haven't I seen you in the Fleet 
over and over again, for contempt ? Haven't I come into Court, 
twen-ty afternoons, for no other purpose than to see you pin the 
Chancellor like a bull-dog 1 Don't you remember, when you first 
began to threaten the lawyers, and the peace was sworn against 
you two or three times a week 1 Ask the little old lady there ; 
she has been always present. Hold up, Mr. Gridley, hold up, 
sir ! " 

"What are you going to do about him? "asked George, in a 
low voice. 

"I don't know yet," said Bucket, in the same tone. Then 
resuming his encouragement, he pursued aloud : 

"Worn out, Mr. Gridley? After dodging me for all these 
weeks, and forcing me to climb the roof here like a Tom Cat, and 



328 BLEAK HOUSE. 

to come to see you as a Doctor? That ain't like being worn out. 
/ should think not ! Now I tell you what you want. You want 
excitement, you know, to keep you up; that's what you want. 
You're used to it, and you can't do without it. I couldn't myself. 
Very well, then ; here's this warrant, got by Mr. Tulkinghorn of 
Lincoln's Inn Fields, and backed into half-a-dozen counties since. 
What do you say to coming along with me, upon this warrant, and 
having a good angry argument before the Magistrates ? It'll do 
you good ; it'll freshen you up, and get you into training for 
another turn at the Chancellor. Give in? Why, I am surprised 
to hear a man of your energy talk of giving in. You mustn't do 
that. You're half the fun of the fair, in the Court of Chancery. 
George, you lend Mr. Gridley a hand, and let's see now whether he 
won't be better up than down." 

" He is very weak," said the trooper, in a low voice. 

" Is he ? " returned Bucket, anxiously. " I only want to rouse 
him. I don't like to see an old acquaintance giving in like this. 
It would cheer him up more than anything, if I could make him a, 
little waxy with me. He's welcome to drop into me, right and 
left, if he likes. / shall never take advantage of it." 

The roof rang with a scream from Miss Flite, which still rings 
in my ears. i 

"0 no, Gridley ! " she cried, as he fell heavily and calmly back 
from before her, "not without my blessing. . After so many 
years ! " 

The siin was down, the light had gradually stolen from the roof, 
and the shadow had crept upward. But, to me, the shadow of 
that pair, one living and one dead, fell heavier on Richard's 
departure than the darkness of the darkest night. And through 
Richard's farewell words I heard it echoed : 

" Of all my old associations, of all my old pursuits and hopes, of 
all the living and the dead world, this one poor soul alone comes 
natural to me, and I am fit for. There is a tie of many suffering 
years between us two, and it is the only tie I ever had on earth 
that Chancery has not broken ! " 



BLEAK HOUSE. 329 

CHAPTER XXV. 

MRS. SNAGSBY SEES IT ALL. 

There is disquietude in Cook's Court, Cursitor Street. Black 
suspicion hides in that peaceful region. The mass of Cook's 
Courtiers are in their usual state of mind, no better and no worse ; 
but, Mr. Snagsby is changed, and his little woman knows it. 

For, Tom-all-Alone's and Lincoln's Inn Fields persist in harness- 
ing themselves, a pair of ungovernable coursers, to the chariot of 
Mr. Snagsby's imagination ; and Mr. Bucket drives ; and the pas- 
sengers are Jo and Mr. Tulkinghorn ; and the complete equipage 
whirls through the Law Stationery business at wild speed, all 
round the clock. Even in the little front kitchen where the family 
meals are taken, it rattles away at a smoking pace from the dinner- 
table, when Mr. Snagsby pauses in carving the first slice of the 
leg of mutton baked with potatoes, and stares at the kitchen 
wall. 

Mr. Snagsby cannot make out what it is that he has had to 

do with. Something is wrong, somewhere ; but what something, 

what may come of it, to whom, when, and from which unthought 

of and unheard of quarter, is the puzzle of his life. His remote 

impressions of the robes and coronets, the stars and garters, that 

sparkle through the surface-dust of Mr. Tulkinghorn's chambers ; 

his veneration for the mysteries presided over by that best and 

closest of his customers, whom all the Inns of Court, all Chancery 

Lane, and all the legal neighbourhood agree to hold in awe ; his 

remembrance of Detective Mr. Bucket with his forefinger, and his 

' confidential manner impossible to be evaded or declined ; persuade 

ii him that he is a party to some dangerous secret, without knowing 

\ what it is. And it is the fearful peculiarity of this condition that, 

1 at any hour of his daily life, at any opening of the shop-door, at 

' any pull of the bell, at any entrance of a messenger, or any 

\- delivery of a letter, the secret may take air and fire, explode, and 

!■ blow up — Mr. Bucket only knows whom. 

For which reason, whenever a man unknown comes into the 
shop (as many men unknown do), and says, " Is Mr. Snagsby in ? " 
I or words to that innocent effect, Mr. Snagsby's heart knocks hard 
at his guilty breast. He undergoes so much from such inquiries, 
that when they are made by boys he revenges himself by flipping 
at their ears over the counter, and asking the young dogs what 
they mean by it, and why they can't speak out at once ? More 
impracticable men and boys persist in walking into Mr. Snagsby's 
sleep, and terrifying him with unaccountable questions ; so that often, 



330 BLEAK HOUSE. 

when the cock at the little dairy in Cursitor Street breaks out in 
his usual absurd way about the morning, Mr. Snagsby finds him- 
self in a crisis of nightmare, with his little woman shaking him, 
and saying " What's the matter with the man ! " 

The little woman herself is not the least item in his difficulty. 
To know that he is always keeping a secret from her; that he has, 
under all circumstances, to conceal and hold fast a tender double- 
tooth, which her sharpness is ever ready to twist out of his head ; 
gives Mr. Snagsby, in her dentistical presence, much of the air of 
a dog who has a reservation from his master, and will look any- 
where rather than meet his eye. 

These various signs and tokens, marked by the little woman, 
are not lost upon her. They impel her to say, "Snagsby has 
something on his mind ! " And thus suspicion gets into Cook's 
Court, Cursitor Street. From suspicion to jealousy, Mrs. Snagsby 
finds the road as natural and short as from Cook's Court to Chan- 
cery Lane. And thus jealousy gets into Cook's Court, Cursitor 
Street. Once there (and it was always lurking thereabout), it is 
very active and nimble in Mrs. Snagsby's breast — prompting her 
to nocturnal examinations of Mr. Snagsby's pockets; to secret^ 
perusals of Mr. Snagsby's letters ; to private researches in the Day 
Book and Ledger, till, cash-box, and iron safe ; to watchings at 
windows, listenings behind doors, and a general putting of this and 
that together by the wrong end. 

Mrs. Snagsby is so perpetually on the alert, that the house 
becomes ghostly with creaking boards and rustling garments. The 
'prentices think somebody may have been murdered there, in by- 
gone times. Guster holds certain loose atoms of an idea (picked 
up at Tooting, where they were found floating among the orphans), 
that there is buried money underneath the cellar, guarded by an 
old man with a white beard, who cannot get out for seven thousand 
years, because he said the Lord's Prayer backwards. 

" Who was Nimrod ? " Mrs. Snagsby repeatedly inquires of her- 
self. "Who was that lady — that creature? And who is that 
boy 1 " Now, Nimrod being as dead as the mighty hunter whose 
name Mrs. Snagsby has appropriated, and the lady being unpro- 
ducible, she directs her mental eye, for the present, with redoubled 
vigilance, to the boy. "And who," quoth Mrs. Snagsby, for the 

thousand and first time, " is that boy ? Who is that ! " And 

there Mrs. Snagsby is seized with an inspiration. 

He has no respect for Mr. Chadband. No, to be sure, and he 
wouldn't have, of course. Naturally he wouldn't, under those 
contagious circumstances. He was invited and appointed by Mr. 
Chadband — why, Mrs. Snagsby heard it herself with her own 



BLEAK HOUSE. 331 

ears ! — to come back, and be told where he was to go, to be 
addressed by Mr. Chadband ; and he never came ! Why did he 
never come ? Because he was told not to come. Who told him 
not to come ? Who ? Ha, ha ! Mrs. Snagsby sees it all. 

But happily (and Mrs. Snagsby tightly shakes her head and 
tightly smiles), that boy was met by Mr. Chadband yesterday in 
the streets ; and that boy, as affording a subject which Mr. Chad- 
band desires to improve for the spiritual delight of a select congre- 
gation, was seized by Mr. Chadband and threatened with being 
delivered over to the police, unless he showed the reverend gentle- 
man where he lived, and unless he entered into, and fulfilled, an 
undertaking to appear in Cook's Court to-morrow night — " to — 
mor — row — night," Mrs. Snagsby repeats for mere emphasis, with 
another tight smile, and another tight shake of her head ; and 
to-morrow night that boy will be here, and to-morrow night Mrs. 
Snagsby will have her eye iipon him and upon some one else ; and 
you may walk a long while in your secret ways (says Mrs. 
Snagsby, with haughtiness and scorn), but you can't blind me ! 

Mrs. Snagsby sounds no timbrel in anybody's ears, but holds her 
purpose quietly, and keeps her counsel. To-morrow comes, the 
savoury preparations for the Oil Trade come, the evening comes. 
Comes, Mr. Snagsby in his black coat ; come, the Chadbands ; 
come (when the gorging vessel is replete), the 'prentices and Gus- 
ter, to be edified ; comes, at last, with his slouching head, and his 
shuffle backward, and his shuffle forward, and his shuffle to the 
right, and his shuffle to the left, and his bit of fur cap in his 
muddy hand, which he picks as if it were some mangy bird he had 
caught, and was plucking before eating raw, Jo, the very, very 
, tough subject Mr. Chadband is to improve. 

Mrs. Snagsby screws a watchful glance on Jo, as he is brought 

into the little drawing-room by Guster. He looks at Mr. Snagsby 

\ the moment he comes in. Aha ! Why does he look at Mr. 

Snagsby ? Mr. Snagsby looks at him. Why should he do that, 

but that Mrs. Snagsby sees it all? Why else should that look 

• pass between them ; why else should Mr. Snagsby be confused, and 

'■ cough a signal cough behind his hand ? It is as clear as crystal 

' that Mr. Snagsby is that boy's father. 

' " Peace, my friends," says Chadband, rising and wiping the oily 
exudations from his reverend visage. " Peace be with us ! My 
friends, why with us 1 Because," with his fat smile, " it cannot 
'■ be against us, because it must be for us ; because it is not harden- 
' ing, because it is softening ; iDecause it does not make war like 
' the hawk, but comes home untoe us like the dove. Therefore, my 
f friends, peace be with us ! My human boy, come forward ! " 



332 BLEAK HOUSE. 

Stretching forth his flabby paw, Mr. Chadbaud lays the same on 
Jo's arm, and considers where to station him. Jo, very doubtful 
of his reverend friend's intentions, and not at all clear but that 
something practical and painful is going to be done to him, mut- 
ters, "You let me alone. I never said nothink to you. You let 
me alone," 

"No, my young friend," says Chadband, smoothly, "I will not 
let you alone. And why? Because I am a harvest-labourer, 
because I am a toiler and a moiler, because you are delivered over 
untoe me, and are become as a precious instrument in my hands. 
My friends, may I so employ this instrument as to use it toe your 
advantage, toe your profit, toe your gain, toe your welfare, toe 
your enrichment ! My young friend, sit upon this stool." 

Jo, apparently possessed by an impression that the reverend 
gentleman wants to cut his hair, shields his head with both arms, 
and is got into the required position with great difficulty, and 
every possible manifestation of reluctance. 

When he is at last adjusted like a lay-figure, Mr. Chadband, 
retiring behind the table, holds up his bear's-i^aw, and says, "My 
friends ! " This is the signal for a general settlement of the audi- 
ence. The 'prentices giggle internally, and nudge each other. 
Guster falls into a staring and vacant state, compounded of a 
stunned admiration of Mr. Chadband and pity for the friendless 
outcast whose condition touches her nearly. Mrs. Snagsby silently 
lays trains of gunpowder. Mrs. Chadband composes herself grimly 
by the fire, and warms her knees : finding that sensation favour- 
able to the reception of eloquence. 

It happens that Mr. Chadband has a pulpit habit of fixing some 
member of his congregation with his eye, and fatly arguing his 
points with that particular person ; who is understood to be 
expected to be moved to an occasional grunt, groan, gasp, or other 
audible expression of inward working ; which expression of inward 
working, being echoed by some elderly lady in the next pew, and 
so communicated, like a game of forfeits, through a circle of the 
more fermentable sinners present, serves the purpose of parliamen- 
tary cheering, and gets Mr. Chadband's steam up. From mere 
force of habit, Mr. Chadband in saying " My friends ! " has rested 
his eye on Mr. Snagsby ; and proceeds to make that ill-starred 
stationer, already sufliciently confused, the immediate recipient of 
his discourse. 

" We have here among us, my friends," says Chadband, " a Gen- 
tile and a Heathen, a dweller in the tents of Tom-all- Alone's and a 
mover-on upon the surface of the earth. We have here among us, 
my friends," and Mr. Chadband, untwisting the point with his 




-^'-t^^ 






334 BLEAK HOUSE. 

dirty thumb-nail, bestows an oily smile on Mr. Snagsby, signifying 
that he will throw him an argumentative back-fall presently if he 
be not already down, "a brother and a boy. Devoid of parents, 
devoid of relations, devoid of flocks and herds, devoid of gold and 
silver, and of precious stones. Now, my friends, why do I say he 
is devoid of these possessions 1 Why ? Why is he ? " Mr. Chad- 
band states the question as if he were propounding an entirely new 
riddle, of much ingenuity and merit, to Mr. Snagsby, and entreat- 
ing him not to give it up. 

Mr. Snagsby, greatly perplexed by the mysterious look he 
received just now from his little woman — at about the period 
when Mr. Chadband mentioned the word parents — is tempted 
into modes'.Iy remarking, " I don't know, I'm sure, sir." On which 
interruption, Mrs. Chadband glares, and Mrs. Snagsby says, " For 
shame ! " 

" I hear a voice," says Chadband ; " is it a still small voice, my 
friends ? I fear not, though I fain would hope so " 

(" Ah— h ! " from Mrs. Snagsby.) 

" Which says, I don't know. Then I will tell you why. I say 
this brother, present here among us, is devoid of parents, devoid 
of relations, devoid of flocks and herds, devoid of gold, of silver, 
and of precious stones, because he is devoid of the light that shines 
in upon some of us. What is that light 1 What is it ? I ask you 
what is that light 1 " 

Mr. Chadband draws back his head and pauses, but Mr. Snagsby 
is not to be lured on to his destruction again. Mr. Chadband, 
leaning forward over the table, pierces what he has got to follow, 
directly into Mr. Snagsby, with the thumb-nail already mentioned. 

" It is," says Chadband, " the ray of rays, the sun of suns, the 
moon of moons, the star of stars. It is the light of Terewth." 

Mr. Chadband draws himself up again, and looks triumphantly at 
Mr. Snagsby, as if he would be glad to know how he feels after that. 

" Of Terewth," says Mr. Chadband, hitting him again. " Say 
not to me that it is not the lamp of lamps. I say to you, it is. 
I say to you, a million of times over, it is. It is ! I say to you that 
I will proclaim it to you, whether you like it or not ; nay, that the 
less you like it, the more I will proclaim it to you. With a speak- 
ing-trumpet ! I say to you that if you rear yourself against it, you 
shall fall, you shall be bruised, you shall be battered, you shall be 
flawed, you shall be smashed." 

The present effect of this flight of oratoiy — much admired for 
its general power by Mr. Chadband's followers — being not only 
to make Mr. Chadband unpleasantly warm, but to represent the 
innocent Mr. Snagsby in the light of a determined enemy to virtue, 



BLEAK HOUSE. 335 

with a forehead of brass and a heart of adamant, that unfortunate 
tradesman becomes yet more disconcerted ; and is in a very advanced 
state of low spirits and false position, when Mr. Chadband acci- 
dentally finishes him. 

" My friends," he resumes, after dabbing his fat head for some 
time — and it smokes to such an extent that he seems to light his 
pocket-handkerchief at it, which smokes, too, after every dab — 
'' to pursue the subject we are endeavouring with our lowly gifts 
to improve, let us in a spirit of love inquire what is that Terewth 
to which I have alluded. For, my young friends," suddenly address- 
ing the 'prentices and Guster, to their consternation, " if I am told 
by the doctor that calomel or castor-oil is good for me, I may nat- 
urally ask what is calomel, and what is castor-oil. I may wish to 
be informed of that, before I dose myself with either or with both. 
Now, my young friends, what is this Terewth, then ? Firstly (in 
a spirit of love), what is the common sort of Terewth — the 
working clothes — the every-day wear, my young friends ? Is it 
deception 1 " 

(" Ah— h ! " from Mrs. Snagsby.) 

"Is it suppression ? " 

(A shiver in the negative from Mrs. Snagsby.) 

"Is it reservation ? " 

(A shake of the head from Mrs. Snagsby — very long and ve^y 
tight.) 

" No, my friends, it is neither of these. Neither of these names 
belongs to it. When this young Heathen now among us — who 
is now, my friends, asleep, the seal of indifference and perdition 
being set upon his eyelids ; but do not wake him, for it is right 
that I should have to wrestle, and to combat and to struggle, and 
to conquer, for his sake — when this young hardened Heathen told 
us a story of a Cock, and of a Bull, and of a lady, and of a sov- 
ereign, was that the Terewth ? No. Or, if it was partly, was it 
wholly, and entirely 1 No, my friends, no ! " 

If Mr. Snagsby could withstand his little woman's look, as it 
enters at his eyes, the windows of his soul, and searches the whole 
tenement, he were other than the man he is. He cowers and droops. 

" Or, my juvenile friends," says Chadband, descending to the 
level of their comprehension, with a very obtrusive demonstration, 
in his greasily meek smile, of coming a long way down-stairs for 
the purpose, " if the master of this house was to go forth into the 
city and there see an eel, and was to come back, and was to call 
untoe him the mistress of this house, and was to say, ' Sarah, rejoice 
with me, for I have seen an elephant ! ' would that be Terewth 1 " 

Mrs. Snagsby in tears. 



336 BLEAK HOUSE. 

" Or put it, my juvenile friends, that he saw an elephant, and 
returning said, ' Lo, the city is barren, I have seen but an eel,' would 
that be Terewthf 

Mrs. Snagsby sobbing loudly. 

" Or put it, my juvenile friends," says Chadband, stimulated by 
the sound, " that the unnatural parents of this slumbering Heathen 
— for parents he had, my juvenile friends, beyond a doubt — after 
casting him forth to the wolves and the vultures, and the wild dogs 
and the young gazelles, and the serpents, went back to their dwell- 
ings and had their pipes, and their pots, and their flutings and their 
dancings, and their malt liquors, and their butcher's meat and poul- 
try, would that be Terewth 1 " 

Mrs. Snagsby replies by delivering herself a prey to spasms ; not 
an unresisting prey, but a crying and a tearing one, so that Cook's 
Court re-echoes with her shrieks. Finally, becoming cataleptic, she 
has to be carried up the narrow staircase like a grand piano. After 
unspeakable suffering, productive of the utmost consternation, she 
is pronounced, by expresses from the bedroom, free from pain, though 
much exhausted ; in which state of affairs Mr. Snagsby, trampled and 
crushed in the pianoforte removal, and extremely timid and feeble, 
ventures to come out from behind the door in the drawing-room. 

All this time, Jo has been standing on the spot where he woke 
up, ever picking his cap, and putting bits of fur in his mouth. 
He spits them out with a remorseful air, for he feels that it is in 
his nature to be an unimprovable reprobate, and that it's no good 
his trying to keep awake, for he won't never know nothink. Though 
it may be, Jo, that there is a history so interesting and affecting 
even to minds as near the brutes as thine, recording deeds done 
on this earth for common men, that if the Chadbands, removing 
their own persons from the light, would but show it thee in simple 
reverence, would but leave it unimproved, would but regard it 
as being eloquent enough without their modest aid — it might hold 
thee awake, and thou might learn from it yet ! 

Jo never heard of any such book. Its compilers, and the Rev- 
erend Chadband, are all one to him — except that he knows the 
Reverend Chadband, and would rather run away from him for an 
hour than hear him talk for five minutes. " It an't no good my 
waiting here no longer," thinks Jo. " Mr. Sangsby an't a going 
to say nothink to me to-night." And down-stairs he shuffles. 

But down-stairs is the charitable Custer, holding by the hand- 
rail of the kitchen stairs, and warding off a fit, as yet doubtfully, 
the same having been induced by Mrs. Snagsby's screaming. She 
has her own supper of bread and cheese to hand to Jo ; with whom 
she ventures to interchange a word or so, for the first time. 



BLEAK HOUSE. 337 

" Here's something to eat, poor boy," says Guster. 

" Thank'ee, mum," says Jo. 

" Are you hungry 1 " 

" Jist ! " says Jo. 

" What's gone of your father and your mother, eh ? " 

Jo stops in the middle of a bite, and looks petrified. For this 
orphan charge of the Christian saint whose shrine was at Tooting, 
has patted him on the shoulder ; and it is the first time in his life 
that any decent hand has been so laid uj^on him. 

" I never know'd nothink about 'em," says Jo. 

" No more didn't I of mine," cries Guster. She is repressing 
symptoms favourable to the fit, when she seems to take alarm at 
something, and vanishes doAvii the stairs. 

"Jo," whispers the law-stationer softly, as the boy lingers on 
the step. 

" Here I am, Mr. Sangsby ! " 

"I didn't know you were gone — there's another half-crown, 
Jo. It was quite right of you to say nothing about the lady the 
other night when we were out together. It would breed trouble. 
You can't be too quiet, Jo." 

" I am fly, master ! " 

And so, good night. 

A ghostly shade, frilled and night-capped, follows the law-sta- 
tioner to the room he came from, and glides higher up. And 
henceforth he begins, go where he will, to be attended by another 
shadow than his own, hardly less constant than his own, hardly 
less quiet than his own. And into whatsoever atmosphere of 
secrecy his own shadow may pass, let all concerned in the secrecy 
beware ! For the watchful Mrs. Snagsby is there too — bone of 
his bone, flesh of his flesh, shadow of his shadow. 



CHAPTER XXVI. 

SHARPSHOOTERS. 

Wintry morning, looking with dull eyes and sallow face upon 
the neighbourhood of Leicester Square, finds its inhabitants unwill- 
ing to get out of bed. Many of them are not early risers at the 
brightest of times, being birds of night who roost when the sun is 
high, and are wide awake and keen for prey when the stars shine 
out. Behind dingy blind and curtain, in upper story and garret, 
skulking more or less under false names, false hair, false titles, 

z 



338 BLEAK HOUSE. 

false jewellery, and false histories, a colony of brigands lie in their 
first sleep. Gentlemen of the green baize road who could dis- 
course, from personal experience, of foreign galleys and home 
treadmills ; spies of strong governments that eternally quake with 
weakness and miserable fear, broken traitors, cowards, bullies, 
gamesters, shuiflers, swindlers, and false witnesses; some not un- 
marked by the branding-iron, beneath their dirty braid ; all with 
more cruelty in them than was in Nero, and more crime than is in 
Newgate. For, howsoever bad the devil can be in fustian or 
smock-frock (and he can be very bad in both) he is a more design- 
ing, callous, and intolerable devil when he sticks a pin in his shirt- 
front, calls himself a gentleman, backs a card or colour, plays a 
game or so of billiards, and knows a little about bills and promis- 
sory notes, than in any other form he wears. And in such form 
Mr. Bucket shall find him, when he will, pervading the tribu- 
tary channels of Leicester Square. 

But the wintry morning wants him not and wakes him not. It 
wakes Mr. George of the Shooting Gallery, and his Familiar. 
They arise, roll up and stow away their mattresses. Mr. George, 
having shaved himself before a looking-glass of minute proportions, 
then marches out, bare-headed and bare-chested, to the Pump, in 
the little yard, and anon comes back shining with yellow soap, 
friction, drifting rain, and exceedingly cold water. As he rubs 
himself upon a large jack-towel, blowing like a military sort of 
diver just come up : his crisp hair curling tighter and tighter on 
his sunburnt temples, the more he rubs it, so that it looks as if it 
never could be loosened.by any less coercive instrument than an iron 
rake or a curry-comb — as he rubs, and puffs, and polishes, and 
blows, turning his head from side to side, the more conveniently to 
excoriate his throat, and standing with his body well bent forward, 
to keep the wet from his martial legs — Phil, on his knees lighting 
a fire, looks round as if it were enough washing for him to see all 
that done, and sufficient renovation, for one day, to take in the 
superfluous health his master throws off". 

When Mr. George is dry, he goes to work to brush his head 
with two hard brushes at once, to that unmerciful degree that 
Phil, shouldering his way round the gallery in the act of sweeping 
it, winks with sympathy. This chafing over, the ornamental part 
of Mr. George's toilet is soon performed. He fills his pipe, lights 
it, and marches up and down smoking, as his custom is, while 
Phil, raising a powerful odour of hot rolls and coffee, prepares 
breakfast. He smokes gravely, and marches in slow time. Per- 
haps this morning's pipe is devoted to the memory of Gridley in 
his grave. 



BLEAK HOUSE. 339 

"And so, Phil," says George of the Shooting Gallery, after 
several turns in silence, " you were dreaming of the country last 
night ? " 

Phil, by-the-bye, said as much, in a tone of surprise, as he 
scrambled out of bed. 

"Yes, guv'ner." 

" What was it like 1 " 

"I hardly know what it was like, guv'ner," says Phil, con- 
sidering. 

" How did you know it was the country 1 " 

" On accounts of the grass, I think. And the swans upon it," 
says Phil, after further consideration. 

" What were the swans doing on the grass 1 " 

" They was a eating of it, I expect," says Phil. 

The master resumes his march, and the man resumes his prepara- 
tion of breakfast. It is not necessarily a lengthened preparation, 
being limited to the setting forth of very simple breakfast requi- 
sites for two, and the broiling of a rasher of bacon at the fire in the 
rusty grate ; but as Phil has to sidle round a considerable part of 
the gallery for every object he wants, and never brings two objects 
at once, it takes time under the circumstances. At length the 
breakfast is ready. Phil announcing it, Mr. George knocks the 
ashes out of his pipe on the hob, stands his pipe itself in the chim- 
ney corner, and sits down to "the meal. When he has helped him- 
self, Phil follows suit ; sitting at the extreme end of the little 
oblong table, and taking his plate on his knees. Either in 
humility, or to hide his blackened hands, or because it is his nat- 
ural manner of eating. 

" The country," says Mr. George, plying his knife and fork ; 
"why, I suppose you never clapped your eyes on the country, 
Phil?" 

"I see the marshes once," says Phil, contentedly eating his 
breakfast. 

" What marshes 1 " 

" The marshes, commander," returns Phil. 

" Where are they 1 " 

"I don't know where they are," says Phil; "but I see 'em, 
guv'ner. They was flat. And miste." 

Governor and Commander are interchangeable terms with Phil, 
expressive of the same respect and deference, and applicable to 
nobody but Mr. George. 

" I was born in the country, Phil." 

" Was you indeed, commander ? " 

"Yes. And bred there." 



340 BLEAK HOUSE. 

Phil elevates his one eyebrow, and, after respectfully staring at 
his master to express interest, swallows a great gulp of coffee, still 
staring at him. 

" There's not a bird's note that I don't know," says Mr. George. 
" Not many an English leaf or berry that I couldn't name. Not 
many a tree that I couldn't climb yet, if I was put to it. I was 
a real country boy, once. My good mother lived in the country." 

" She must have been a fine old lady, guv'ner," Phil observes. 

"Ay! and not so old either, five-and-thirty years ago," says 
Mr. George. " But I'll wager that at ninety she would be near 
as upright as me, and near as broad across the shoulders." 

*' Did she die at ninety, guv'ner ? " inquires Phil. 

" No. Bosh ! Let her rest in peace, God bless her ! " says the 
trooper. "What set me on about country boys, and runaways, 
and good-for-nothings ? You, to be sure ! So you never clapped 
your eyes upon the country — marshes and dreams excepted. Eh ? " 

Phil shakes his head. 

" Do you want to see it ? " 

" N-no, I don't know as I do, particular," says Phil. 

" The town's enough for you, eh ? " 

" Why you see, commander," says Phil, " I ain't acquainted with 
anythink else, and I doubt if I ain't a getting too old to take to 
novelties." 

" How old are you, Phil 1 " asks the trooper, pausing as he con- 
veys his smoking saucer to his lips. 

"I'm something with a eight in it," says Phil. "It can't be 
eighty. Nor yet eighteen. It's betwixt 'em, somewheres." 

Mr. George, slowly putting down his saucer without tasting its 
contents, is laughingly beginning " Why, what the deuce, Phil," 
— when he stops, seeing that Phil is counting on his dirty 
fingers. 

" I was just eight," says Phil, " agreeable to the parish calcula- 
tion, when I went with the tinker. I was sent on a errand, and 
I see him a sittin' under a old buildin' with a fire all to himself 
wery comfortable, and he says, ' Would you like to come along a 
me, my man?' I says 'Yes,' and him and me and the fire goes 
home to Clerkenwell together. That was April Fool Day. I was 
able to count up to ten ; and when AjDril Fool Day come round 
again, I says to myself, ' Now, old chap, you're one and a eight in 
it.' April Fool Day after that, I says, ' Now, old chap, you're two 
and a eight in it.' In course of time, I come to ten and a eight 
in it ; two tens and a eight in it. When it got so high, it got the 
upper hand of me ; but this is how I always know there's a eight 
in it." 



BLEAK HOUSE. 341 

" Ah ! " says Mr. George, resuming his breakfast. " And where's 
the tinker ? " 

" Drink put him in the hospital, guv'ner, and the hospital put 
him — in a glass-case, I have heerd," Phil replies mysteriously. 

" By that means you got promotion ? Took the business, 
Phil 1 " 

"Yes, commander, I took the business. Such as it was. It 
wasn't much of a beat — round Saffron Hill, Hatton Garden, 
Clerkenwell, Smiff"eld, and there — poor neighbourhood, where 
they uses up the kettles till they're past mending. Most of the 
tramping tinkers used to come and lodge at our place ; that was 
the best part of my master's earnings. But they didn't come to 
me. I warn't like him. He could sing 'em a good song. I 
couldn't ! He could play 'em a tune on any sort of pot you please, 
so as it was iron or block tin. / never could do nothing with a 
pot, but mend it or bile it — never had a note of music in me. 
Besides, I was too ill-looking, and their wives complained of 
me." 

" They were mighty particular. You would pass muster in a 
crowd, Phil ! " says the trooper with a pleasant smile. 

" No, guv'ner," returns Phil, shaking his head. " No, I 
shouldn't. I was passable enough when I went with the tinker, 
though nothing to boast of then : but what with blowing the fire 
with my mouth when I was young, and spiling my complexion, 
and singeing my hair off", and swallering the smoke ; and what 
with being nat'rally unfort'nate in the way of running against hot 
metal, and marking myself by sich means ; and what with having 
turn-ups with the tinker as I got older, almost whenever he was 
too far gone in drink — which was almost always — my beauty 
was queer, wery queer, even at that time. As to since ; what with 
a dozen years in a dark forge, where the men was given to larking ; 
and what with being scorched in a accident at a gas-works ; and 
what with being blowed out of winder, case-filling at the firework 
business ; I am ugly enough to be made a show on ! " 

Resigning himself to which condition with a perfectly satisfied 
manner, Phil begs the favour of another cup of coffee. While 
drinking it, he says : 

" It was after the case-filling blow-up, when I first see you, com- 
mander. You remember?" 

" I remember, Phil. You were walking along in the sun." 

"Crawling, guv'ner, again a wall- 



True, Phil — shouldering your way on - 
" In a nightcap ! " exclaims Phil, excited. 
"In a nightcap " 



342 BLEAK HOUSE. 

" And hobbling with a couple of sticks ! "' cries Phil, still more 
excited. 

" With a couple of sticks. When " 

" When you stops, you know," cries Phil, putting down his cup 
and saucer, and hastily removing his plate from his knees, " and 
says to me, ' What, comrade ! You have been in the wars ! ' I 
didn't say much to you, commander, then, for I was took by sur- 
prise, that a person so strong and healthy and bold as you was, 
should stop to speak to such a limping bag of bones as I was. 
But you says to me, says you, delivering it out of your chest as 
hearty as possible, so that it was like a glass of something hot, 
' What accident have you met with ? You have heen badly hurt. 
What's amiss, old boy 1 Cheer up, and tell us about it ! ' Cheer 
up ! I was cheered already ! I says as much to you, you says 
more to me, I says more to you, you says more to me, and here I 
am, commander ! Here .1 am, commander ! " cries Phil, who has 
started from his chair and unaccountably begun to sidle away. 
"If a mark's wanted, or if it will improve the business, let the 
customers take aim at me. They can't spoil m^ beauty. Tm. all 
right. Come on ! If they want a man to box at, let 'em box at 
me. Let 'em knock me well about the head. / don't mind ! If 
they want a light-weight, to be throwed for practice, Cornwall, 
Devonshire, or Lancashire, let 'em throw me. They won't hurt 
me. I have been throwed, all sorts of styles, all my life ! " 

With this unexpected speech, energetically delivered, and accom- 
panied by action illustrative of the various exercises referred to, 
Phil Squod shoulders his way round three sides of the galleiy, and 
abruptly tacking off at his commander, makes a butt at him with 
his head, intended to express devotion to his service. He then 
begins to clear away the breakfast. 

Mr. George, after laughing cheerfully, and clapping him on the 
shoulder, assists in these arrangements, and helps to get the gal- 
lery into business order. That done, he takes a turn at the dumb- 
bells ; and afterwards weighing himself, and opining that he is 
getting " too fleshy," engages -with great gravity in solitary broad- 
sword practice. Meanwhile, Phil has fallen to work at his usual 
table, where he screws and unscrews, and cleans, and files, and 
whistles into small apertures, and blackens himself more and more, 
and seems to do and undo everything that can be done and undone 
about a gun. 

Master and man are at length disturbed by footsteps in the pas- 
sage, where they make an unusual sound, denoting the arrival of 
unusual company. These steps, advancing nearer and nearer to 
the gallery, bring into it a group, at first sight scarcely reconcilable 
with any day in the year but the fifth of November. 



,^ ,/^/tW^ 




344 BLEAK HOUSE. 

It consists of a limp and ugly figure carried in a chair by two 
"bearers, and attended by a lean female with a face like a pinched 
mask, who might be expected immediately to recite the popular 
verses, commemorative of the time when they did contrive to blow 
Old England up alive, but for her keeping her lips tightly and 
defiantly closed as the chair is put down. At which point, the 
figure in it gasping, " Lord ! dear me ! I am shaken ! " adds, 
" How de do, my dear friend, how de do 1 " Mr. George then 
descries, in the procession, the venerable Mr. Smallweed out for an 
airing, attended by his grand-daughter Judy as body-guard. 

"Mr. George, my dear friend," says Grandfather Smallweed, 
removing his right arm from the neck of one of his bearers, whom 
he has nearly throttled coming along, "howdedo? You're sur- 
prised to see me, my dear friend." 

" I should hardly have been more sixrprised to see your friend 
in the city," returns Mr. George. 

"I am very seldom out," pants Mr. Smallweed. " I haven't 
been out for many months. It's inconvenient — and it comes 
expensive. But I longed so much to see you, my dear Mr. George. 
How de do, sir 1 " 

" I am well enough," says Mr. George. " I hope you are the 
same." 

" You can't be too well, my dear friend." Mr. Smallweed takes 
him by both hands. "I have brought my grand -daughter Judy. 
I couldn't keep her away. She longed so much to see you." 

" Hum ! She bears it calmly ! " mutters Mr. George. 

" So we got a hackney-cab, and jjut a chair in it, and just round 
the corner they lifted me out of the cab and into the chair, and 
carried me here, that I might see my dear friend in his own estab- 
lishment ! This," says Grandfather Smallweed, alluding to the 
bearer, who has been in danger of strangulation, and who with- 
draws adjusting his windpipe, "is the driver of the cab. He has 
nothing extra. It is by agreement included in his fare. This per- 
son," the other bearer, " we engaged in the street outside for a pint 
of beer. Which is twopence. Judy, give the person twopence. 
I was not sure you had a workman of your own here, my dear 
friend, or we needn't have employed this person." 

Grandfather Smallweed refers to Phil, with a glance of consider- 
able terror, and a half-subdued " Lord ! dear me ! " Nor is 
his apprehension, on the surface of things, without some reason ; 
for Phil, who has never beheld the apparition in the black velvet 
cap before, has stopped short with a gun in his hand, with much 
of the air of a dead shot, intent on picking Mr. Smallweed off a& 
an ugly old bird of the crow species. 



BLEAK HOUSE. 345 

"Judy, my child," says Grandfather Smallweed, "give the per- 
son his twopence. It's a great deal for what he has done." 

The person, who is one of those extraordinary specimens of 
human fungus that spring up spontaneously in the western streets 
of London, ready dressed in an old red jacket, with a " Mission " 
for holding horses and calling coaches, receives his twopence with 
anything but transport, tosses the money into the air, catches it 
over-handed, and retires. 

" My dear Mr. George," says Grandfather Smallweed, " would you 
be so kind as help to carry me to the fire? I am accustomed 
to a fii-e, and I am an old man, and I soon chill. dear me ! " 

His closing exclamation is jerked out of the venerable gentle- 
man by the suddenness with which Mr. Squod, like a genie, 
catches him up, chair and all, and deposits him on the hearth- 
stone. 

" Lord ! " says Mr. Smallweed, panting. " O dear me ! 
my stars ! My dear friend, your workman is very strong — and 
very prompt. Lord, he is very prompt ! Judy, draw me back 
a little. I'm being scorched in the legs ; " which indeed is tes- 
tified to the noses of all present by the smell of his worsted 
stockings. 

The gentle Judy, having backed her grandfather a little way 
from the fire, and having shaken him up as usual, and having 
released his overshadowed eye from its black velvet extinguisher, 
Mr. Smallweed again says, " dear me ! Lord ! " and looking 
about, and meeting Mr. George's glance, again stretches out both 
hands. 

" My dear friend ! So happy in this meeting ! And this is 
your establishment ? It's a delightful place. It's a picture ! You 
never find that anything goes off here, accidentally ; do you, my 
dear friend 1 " adds Grandfather Smallweed, very ill at ease. 

" No, no. No fear of that." 

" And your workman. He — dear me ! — he never lets any- 
thing off without meaning it ; does he, my dear friend 1 " 

" He has never hurt anybody but himself," says Mr. George, 
smiling. 

" But he might, you know. He seems to have hurt himself a 
good deal, and he might hurt somebody else," the old gentleman 
returns. "He mightn't mean it — or he even might. Mr. George, 
will you order him to leave his infernal fire-arms alone, and go 
away ? " 

Obedient to a nod from the trooper, Phil retires, empty-handed, 
to the other end of the gallery. Mr. Smallweed, reassured, falls 
to rubbing his legs. 



346 BLEAK HOUSE. 

" And you're doing well, Mr. George ? " he says to the trooper, 
squarely standing faced about towards him with his broadsword in 
his hand. " You are prospering, please the Powers ? " 

Mr. George answers with a cool nod, adding, " Go on. You 
have not come to say that, I know." 

" You are so sprightly, Mr. George," returns the venerable grand- 
father. " You are such good company." 

" Ha ha ! Go on ! " says Mr. George. 

" My dear friend ! — But that sword looks awful gleaming and 
sharp. It might cut somebody, by accident. It makes me shiver, 
Mr. George — Curse him ! " says the excellent old gentleman apart 
to Judy, as the trooper takes a step or two away to lay it aside. 
" He owes me money, and might think of paying off all scores in 
this murdering place. I wish your brimstone grandmother was 
here, and he'd shave her head off." 

Mr. George, returning, folds his arms, and looking down at the 
old man, sliding every moment lower and lower in his chair, says 
quietly, " Now for it ! " 

" Ho ! " cries Mr. Smallweed, rubbing his hands with an artful 
chuckle. "Yes. Now for it. Now for what, my dear friend?" 

" For a pipe," says Mr. George ; who with great composure sets 
his chair in the chimney-corner, takes his pipe from the grate, fills 
it and lights it, and falls to smoking peacefully. 

This tends to the discomfiture of Mr. Smallweed, who finds it 
so difficult to resume his object, whatever it may be, that he becomes 
exasperated, and secretly claws the air with an impotent vindictive- 
ness expressive of an intense desire to tear and rend the visage of 
Mr. George. As the excellent old gentleman's nails are long and 
leaden, and his hands "lean and veinous, and his eyes green and 
watery ; and, over and above this, as he continues, while he claws, 
to slide down in his chair and to collapse into a shapeless bundle ; 
he becomes such a ghastly spectacle, even in the accustomed eyes 
of Judy, that that young virgin pounces at him with something 
more than the ardour of affection, and so shakes him up, and pats 
and pokes him in divers parts of his body, but particularly in that 
part which the science of self-defence would call his wind, that in 
his grievous distress he utters enforced sounds like a paviour's 
rammer. 

When Judy has by these means set him up again in his chair, 
with a white face and a frosty nose (but still clawing), she stretches 
out her weazen forefinger, and gives Mr. George one poke in the 
back. The trooper raising his head, she makes another poke at her 
esteemed grandfather ; and, having thus brought them together, 
stares rigidly at the fire. 



BLEAK HOUSE. 347 

" Aye, aye ! Ho, ho ! U — u — u — ugh ! " chatters Grand- 
father Small weed, swallowing his rage. " My dear friend ! " (still 
clawing). 

"I tell you what," says Mr. George. "If you want to converse 
with me, you must speak out. I am one of the Roughs, and I 
can't go about and about. I haven't the art to do it. I am not 
clever enough. It don't suit me. When you go winding round 
and round me," says the trooper, putting his pipe between his lips 
again, " damme, if I don't feel as if I was being smothered ! " 

And he inflates his broad chest to its utmost extent, as if to assure 
himself that he is not smothered yet. 

" If you have come to give me a friendly call," continues Mr. 
George, " I am obliged to you ; how are you ? If you have come 
to see whether there's any property on the premises, look about 
you ; you are welcome. If you want to out with something, out 
with it ! " 

The blooming Judy, without removing her gaze from the fire, 
gives her grandfather one ghostly poke. 

" You see ! It's her opinion, too. And why the devil that 
young woman won't sit down like a Christian," says Mr. George, 
with his eyes musingly fixed on Judy, "/ can't comprehend." 

"She keeps at my side to attend to me, sir," says Grandfather 
Small weed. " I am an old man, my dear Mr. George, and I need 
some attention. I can carry my years ; I am not a Brimstone 
poll-parrot ; " (snarling and looking unconsciously for the cushion ;) 
"but I need attention, my dear friend." 

" Well ! " returns the trooper, wheeling his chair to face the old 
man. " Now then ? " 

" My friend in the city, Mr. George, has done a little business 
with a pupil of yours." 

"Has he?" says Mr. George. "I am sorry to hear it." 

"Yes, sir." Grandfather Smallweed rubs his legs. "He is a 
fine young soldier now, Mr. George, by the name of Carstone. 
Friends came forward, and paid it all up, honourable." 

" Did they 1 " returns Mr. George. " Do you think your friend 
in the city would like a piece of advice 1 " 

" I think he would, my dear friend. From you." 

" I advise him, then, to do no more business in that quarter. 
There's no more to be got by it. The youn^r gentleman, to my 
knowledge, is brought to a dead halt." 

"No, no, my dear friend. No, no, Mr. George. No, no, no, 
sir," remonstrates Grandfather Smallweed, cunningly rubbing his 
spare legs. " Not quite a dead halt, I think. He has good friends, 
and he is good for his pay, and he is good for the selling price of 



348 BLEAK HOUSE. 

his commission, and lie is good for his chance in a law.snit, and he 
is good for his chance in a wife, and — oh, do you know, Mr. George, 
I think my friend would consider the young gentleman good for 
something yet ? " says Grandfather Smallweed, turning up his velvet 
cap, and scratching his ear like a monkey. 

Mr. George, who has put aside his pipe and sits with an arm on 
his chair-back, beats a tattoo on the ground with his right foot, as 
if he were not particularly pleased with the turn the conversation 
has taken. 

" But to pass from one subject to another," resumes Mr. Small- 
weed. " To promote the conversation, as a joker might say. To 
pass, Mr. George, from the ensign to the captain." 

" What are you up to, now ? " asks Mr. George, pausing with 
a frown in stroking the recollection of his moustache. "What 
captain ? " 

" Our captain. The captain we know of Captain Hawdon." 

" ! that's it, is it ? " says Mr. George, with a low whistle, as 
he sees both grandfather and grand-daughter looking hard at him ; 
" you are there ! Well 1 what about it ? Come, I won't be smothered 
any more. Speak ! " 

" My dear friend," returns the old man, " I was applied — Judy, 
shake me up a little ! — I was applied to, yesterday, about the 
captain ; and my opinion still is, that the captain is not dead." 

" Bosh ! " observes Mr. George. 

" What was your remark, my dear friend ? " inquires the old man 
with his hand to his ear. 

" Bosh ! " 

"Ho!" says Grandfather Smallweed. "Mr. George, of my 
opinion you can judge for yourself, according to the questions asked 
of me, and the reasons given for asking 'em. Now, what do you 
think the lawyer making the inquiries wants ? " 

"A job," says Mr. George. 

" Nothing of the kind ! " 

"Can't be a lawyer, then," says Mr. George, folding his arms 
with an air of confirmed resolution. 

" My dear friend, he is a lawyer, and a famous one. He wants 
to see some fragment in Captain Hawdon's writing. He don't 
want to keep it. He only wants to see it, and compare it with a 
writing in his possession." 

"Well?" 

" Well, Mr. George. Happening to remember the advertisement 
concerning Captain Hawdon, and any information that could be 
given respecting him, he looked it up and came to me — just as you 
did, my dear friend. Will you shake hands ? So glad you came, 



I 



BLEAK HOUSE. 349 

that day ! I should have missed forming such a friendship, if you 
hadn't come ! " 

"Well, Mr. Smallweed?" says Mr. George again, after going 
through the ceremony with some stiffness. 

"I had no such thing. I have nothing but his signature. 
Plague pestilence and famine, battle murder and sudden death upon 
him," says the old man, making a curse out of one of his few 
remembrances of a prayer, and squeezing up his velvet cap between 
his angry hands, " I have half a million of his signatures, I think ! 
But you," breathlessly recovering his mildness of speech, as Judy 
readjusts the cap on his skittle-ball of a head ; "you, my dear Mr. 
George, are likely to have some letter or paper that would suit the 
purpose. Anything would suit the purpose, written in the hand." 

"Some writing in that hand," says the trooper, pondering, "may 
be, I have." 

" My dearest friend ! " 

" May be, I have not." 

" Ho ! " says Grandfather Smallweed, crest-fallen. 

" But if I had bushels of it, I would not show as much as would 
make a cartridge, without knowing why." 

" Sir, I have told you why. My dear Mr. George, I have told 
you why." 

"Not enough," says the trooper, shaking his head. "I must 
know more, and approve it." 

" Then, will you come to the lawyer? My dear friend, will you 
come and see the gentleman 1 " urges Grandfather Smallweed, pull- 
ing out a lean old silver watch, with hands like the legs of a skeleton. 
" I told him it was probable I might call upon him, between ten 
and eleven this forenoon ; and it's now half after ten. Will you 
come and see the gentleman, Mr. George 1 " 

"Hum ! " .says he, gravely. "I don't mind that. Though why 
this should concern you so much, I don't know." 

" Everything concerns me, that has a chance in it of bringing 
anything to light about him. Didn't he take us all in ? Didn't 
he owe us immense sums, all round 1 Concern me ? Who can 
anything about him concern, more than me ? Not, my dear friend," 
says Grandfather Smallweed, lowering his tone, " that I want i/ou 
to betray anything. Far from it. Are you ready to come, my 
dear friend 1 " 

" Ay ! I'll come in a moment. I promise nothing, you know." 

" No, my dear Mr. George ; no." 

" And you mean to say you're going to give me a lift to this 
place, wherever it is, without charging for it 1 " Mr. George inquires, 
getting his hat, and thick wash-leather gloves. 



350 BLEAK HOUSE. 

This pleasantry so tickles Mr. Smallweed, that he laughs, long 
and low, before the fire. But ever while he laughs, he glances over 
his paralytic shoulder at Mr. George, and eagerly watches him as 
he unlocks the padlock of a homely cupboard at the distant end 
of the gallery, looks here and there upon the higher shelves, and 
ultimately takes something out with a rustling of prper, folds it, 
and puts it in his breast. Then Judy pokes Mr. Smallweed once, 
and Mr. Smallweed pokes Judy once. 

"I am ready," says the trooper, coming back. "Phil, you can 
carry this old gentleman to his coach, and make nothing of him." 

" dear me ! Lord ! Stop a moment ! " says Mr. Small- 
weed. " He's so very prompt ! Are you sure you can do it care- 
fully, my worthy man ? " 

Phil makes no reply ; but, seizing the chair and its load, sidles 
away, tightly hugged by the now speechless Mr. Smallweed, and 
bolts along the passage, as if he had an acceptable commission to 
carry the old gentleman to the nearest volcano. His shorter trust, 
however, terminating at the cab, he deposits him there ; and the 
fair Judy takes her place beside him, and the chair embellishes the 
roof, and Mr. George takes the vacant place upon the box. 

Mr. George is quite confounded by the spectacle he beholds from 
time to time as he peeps into the cab, through the window behind 
him ; where the grim Judy is always motionless, and the old gentle- 
man with his cap over one eye is always sliding oft" the seat into 
the straw, and looking upward at him, out of his other eye, with a 
helpless expression of being jolted in the back. 



CHAPTER XXVII. 

MORE OLD SOLDIERS THAN OKE. 

Mr. George has not far to ride with folded arms upon the box, 
for their destination is Lincoln's Inn Fields. When the driver 
stops his horses, Mr. George alights, and looking in at the window, 
says : 

" What, Mr, Tulkinghorn's your man, is he ? " 
" Yes, my dear friend. Do you know him, Mr. George 1 " 
" Why, I have heard of him — seen him too, I think. But I 
don't know him, and he don't know me." 

There ensues the carrying of Mr. Smallweed up-stairs ; which) 
is done to perfection with the trooper's help. He is borne into 
Mr. Tulkinghorn's great room, and deposited on the Turkey rug 



BLEAK HOUSE. 361 

before the fire. Mr. Tulkinghorn is not within at the present 
moment, but will be back directly. The occupant of the pew in 
the hall, having said thus much, stirs the fire, and leaves the 
triumvirate to warm themselves. 

Mr. George is mightily curious in respect of the room. He looks 
up at the painted ceiling, looks round at the old law-books, con- 
templates th?. portraits of the great clients, reads aloud the names 
on the boxes. 

" ' Sir Leicester Dedlock, Baronet,' " Mr. George reads thought- 
fully. "Ha! 'Manor of Chesney Wold.' Humph!" Mr. George 
stands looking at these boxes a long while — as if they were pictures 
— and comes back to the fire, repeating, " Sir Leicester Dedlock, 
Baronet, and Manor of Chesney Wold, hey 1 " 

" Worth a mint of money, Mr. George ! " whispers Grandfather 
Smallweed, rubbing his legs. " Powerfully rich ! " 

" Who do you mean ? This old gentleman, or the Baronet ? " 

" This gentleman, this gentleman." 

" So I have heard ; and knows a thing or two, I'll hold a wager. 
Not bad quarters either," says Mr. George, looking round again. 
" See the strong box, yonder ! " 

This reply is cut short by Mr. Tulkinghorn 's arrival. There is 
no change in iiim, of course. Rustily drest, with his spectacles in 
his hand, and their very case worn threadbare. In manner, close 
and dry. In voice, husky and low. In face, watchful behind a 
blind ; habitually not uncensorious and contemptuous perhaps. 
The peerage may have warmer worshippers and faithfuller believers 
than Mr. Tulkinghorn, after all, if everything were known. 

" Good morning, Mr. Smallweed, good morning ! " he says as he 
comes in. "You have brought the Serjeant, I see. Sit down, 
. Serjeant." 

As Mr. Tulkinghorn takes off his gloves and puts them in his 
1 hat, he looks with half closed eyes across the room to where the 
trooper stands, and says within himself perchance, " You'll do, my 
! friend ! " 

" Sit down, Serjeant," he repeats, as he comes to his table, which 

• is set on one side of the fire, and takes his easy-chair. " Cold and 

raw this morning, cold and raw ! " Mr. Tulkinghorn warms before 

I the bars, alternately, the palms and knuckles of his hands, and 

looks (from behind that blind which is always down) at the trio 

j sitting in a little semicircle before him. 

" Now, I can feel what I am about ! " (as perhaps he can in two 
J senses) "Mr. Smallweed." The old gentleman is newly shaken up 
by Judy, to bear his part in the conversation. "You have brought 
lOur good friend the serjeant, I see." 



352 BLEAK HOUSE. 

"Yes, sir," returns Mr. Smallweed, very servile to the lawyer's 
wealth and influence. 

" And what does the serjeant say about this business ? " 

"Mr. George," says Grandfather Smallweed, with a trcmidous 
wave of his shrivelled hand, " this is the gentleman, sir." 

Mr. George salutes the gentleman ; but otherwise sits bolt upright 
and profoundly silent — very forward in his chair, as if the full com- 
plement of regulation appendages for a field-day hung about him. 

Mr. Tulkinghorn proceeds: "Well, George? — I believe your 
name is George ? " 

" It is so, sir." 

" What do you say, George ? " 

"I ask your pardon, sir," returns the trooper, "but I should 
wish to know what you say ? " 

" Do you mean in point of reward ? " 

"I mean in point of everything, sir." 

This is so very trying to Mr. Smallweed's temper, that he suddenly 
breaks out with "You're a Brimstone beast ! " and as suddenly asks 
pardon of Mr. Tulkinghorn ; excusing himself for this slip of the 
tongue, by saying to Judy, "I was thinking of your grandmother, 
my dear." 

" I supposed, Serjeant," Mr. Tulkinghorn resumes, as he leans on 
one side of his chair and crosses his legs, "that Mr. Smallweed might 
have sufficiently explained the matter. It lies in the smallest com- 
pass, however. You served under Captain Hawdon at one time, 
and were his attendant in illness, and rendered him many little: 
services, and were rather in his confidence, I am told. That is so, | 
is it not ? " 

"Yes, sir, that is so," says Mr. George, with military brevity. 

"Therefore you may happen to have in your possession some- 
thing — anything, no matter what — accounts, instructions, orders, 
a letter, anything — in Captain Hawdon 's writing. I wish to com- 
pare his writing with some that I have. If you can give me the 
opportunity, you shall be rewarded for your trouble. Three, four, 
five, guineas, you would consider handsome, I dare say." 

" Noble, my dear friend ! " cries Grandfather Smallweed, screw- 
ing up his eyes. 

" If not, say how much more, in your conscience as a soldier, yoii 
can demand. There is no need for you to part with the writing, 
against your inclination — though I should prefer to have it." 

Mr. George sits squared in exactly the same attitude, looks at 
the ground, looks at the painted ceiling, and says never a word. 
The irascible Mr. Smallweed scratches the air. 

"The question is," says Mr. Tulkinghorn in his methodical 



BLEAK HOUSE. 353 

subdued, uninterested way, "first, whether you have any of Cap- 
tain Hawdon's writing ? " 

"First, whether I have any of Captain Hawdon's writing, sir," 
repeats Mr. George. 

" Secondly, what will satisfy you for the trouble of producing it 1 " 

" Secondly, what will satisfy me for the trouble of producing it, 
sir," repeats Mr. George. 

" Thirdly, you can judge for yourself whether it is at all like 
that," says Mr. Tulkinghorn, suddenly handing him some sheets of 
written paper tied together. 

"Whether it is at all like that, sir. Just so," repeats Mr. 
George. 

All three repetitions Mr. George pronounces in a mechanical 
manner, looking straight at Mr. Tulkinghorn ; nor does he so much 
as glance at the affidavit in Jarndyce and Jarndyce, that has been 
given to him for his inspection (though he still holds it in his 
hand), but continues to look at the lawyer with an air of troubled 
meditation. 

" Well ? " says Mr. Tulkinghorn. " What do you say ? " 

"Well, sir," replies Mr. George, rising erect and looking im- 
mense, " I would rather, if you'll excuse me, have nothing to do 
with this." 

Mr. Tulkinghorn, outwardly quite undisturbed, demands "Why 
not ? " 

"Why, sir," returns the trooper. "Except on military com- 
pulsion, I am not a man of business. Among civilians I am 
what they call in Scotland a ne'er-do-weel. I have no head for 
papers, sir. I can stand any fire better than a fire of cross ques- 
tions. I mentioned to Mr. Smallweed, only an hour or so ago, that 
iwhen I come into things of this kind I feel as if I was being 
, smothered. And that is my sensation," says Mr. George, looking 
.(round upon the company, "at the present moment." 
J With that, he takes three strides forward to replace the papers 
jon the lawyer's table, and three strides backward to resume his 
former station : where he stands perfectly upright, now looking at 
the ground, and now at the painted ceiling, with his hands behind 
'him as if to prevent himself from accepting any other document 
[ whatever. 

Under this provocation, Mr. Small weed's favourite adjective of 
disparagement is so close to his tongue, that he begins the words 
"my dear friend " with the monosyllable " Brim ; " thus converting 
^bhe possessive pronoun into Brimmy, and appearing to have an 
mpediment in his speech. Once past this difficulty, however, he 
jxhorts his dear friend in the tendei-est manner not to be rash, but 

2a 



354 BLEAK HOUSE. 

to do what so eminent a gentleman requires, and to do it with a 
good grace : confident tliat it must be unobjectionable as well as 
profitable. Mr. Tulkinghorn merely utters an occasional sentence, 
as "You are the best judge of your own interest, serjeant." 
" Take care you do no harm by this." " Please yourself, please 
yourself." " If you know what you mean, that's quite enough." 
These he utters with an appearance of perfect indifference, as he 
looks over the papers on his table, and prepares to write a letter. 

Mr. George looks distrustfully from the painted ceiling to the 
ground, from the ground to Mr. Smallweed, from Mr. Smallweed 
to Mr. Tulkinghorn, and from Mr. Tulkinghorn to the painted 
ceiling again : often in his perplexity changing the leg on which he 
rests. 

" I do assure you, sir," says Mr. George, " not to say it offen- 
sively, that between you and Mr. Smallweed here, I really am 
being smothered fifty times over. I really am, sir. I am not a 
match for you gentlemen. Will you allow me to ask, why you 
want to see the captain's hand, in the case that I could find any 
specimen of it 1 " 

Mr. Tulkinghorn quietly shakes his head. " No. If you were 
a man of business, serjeant, you would not need to be informed 
that there are confidential reasons, very harmless in themselves, 
for many such wants, in the profession to which I belong. But 
if you are afraid of doing any injury to Captain Hawdon, you 
may set your mind at rest about that." ( 

"Ay ! he is dead, sir." 

"/s he?" Mr. Tulkinghorn quietly sits down to write. 

"Well, sir," says the trooper, looking into his hat, after another 
disconcerted pause ; "I am sorry not to have given you more 
satisfaction. If it would be any satisfaction to any one, that I 
should be confirmed in my judgment that I would rather have 
nothing to do with this, by a friend of mine, who has a better 
head for business than I have, and who is an old soldier, I am 
willing to consult with him. I — I really am so completely 
smothered myself, at present," says Mr. George, passing his hand 
hopelessly across his brow, " that I don't know but what it might 
be a satisfaction to me." 

Mr. Smallweed, hearing that this authority is an old soldier, so 
strongly inculcates the expediency of the trooper's taking counsel 
with him, and particularly informing him of its being a question 
of five guineas or more, that Mr. George engages to go and see 
him. Mr. Tulkinghorn says nothing either way. 

"I'll consult my friend, then, by your leave, sir," says the trooper, 
"and I'll take the liberty of looking in again with a final answer 



BLEAK HOUSE. 355 

in the course of the day. Mr. Smallweed, if you wish to be carried 
down-stairs " 

" In a moment, my dear friend, in a moment. Will you first let 
me speak half a word with this gentleman, in private ? " 

" Certainly, sir. Don't hurry yourself on my account." The 
trooper retires to a distant 23art of the room, and resumes his curi- 
ous inspection of the boxes ; strong, and otherwise. 

" If I wasn't as weak as a Brimstone Baby, sir," whispers Grand- 
father Smallweed, drawing the lawyer down to his level by the 
lappel of his coat, and flashing some half-quenched green fire out 
of his angry eyes, "I'd tear the writing away from him. He's got 
it buttoned in his breast. I saw him put it there. Judy saw him 
put it there. Speak up, you crabbed image for the sign of a walk- 
ing-stick shop, and say you saw him put it there ! " 

This vehement conjuration the old gentleman accompanies with 
such a thrust at his grand-daughter, that it is too much for his 
strength, and he slips away out of his chair, drawing Mr. Tulking- 
horn with him, until he is arrested by Judy, and well shaken. 

"Violence will not do for me, my ifriend," Mr. Tulkinghorn then 
remarks coolly. 

"No, no, I know, I know, sir. But it's chafing and galling — 
it's — it's worse than your smattering chattering Magpie of a grand- 
mother," to the imperturbable Judy, who only looks at the fire, 
" to know he has got what's wanted, and won't give it up. He, 
not to give it up ! He ! A vagabond ! But never mind, sir, 
never mind. At the most, he has only his own way for a little 
while. I have him periodically in a vice. I'll twist him, sir. 
I'll screw him, sir. If he won't do it with a good grace, I'll make 
him do it with a bad one, sir ! — Now, my dear Mr. George," says 
Grandfather Smallweed, winking at the lawyer hideously, as he 
releases him, " I am ready for your kind assistance, my excellent 
friend ! " 

Mr. Tulkinghorn, with some shadowy sign of amusement mani- 
festing itself through his self-possession, stands on the hearth-rug 
with his back to the fire, watching the disappearance of Mr. Small- 
weed, and acknowledging the trooper's parting salute with one 
sHght nod. 

It is more difiicult to get rid of the old gentleman, Mr. George 
finds, than to bear a hand in carrying him down-stairs ; for, when 
he is replaced in his conveyance, he is so loquacious on the subject 
of the guineas, and retains such an affectionate hold of his button 
— having, in truth, a secret longing to rip his coat open, and rob 
him — that some degree of force is necessaiy on the trooper's part 
to effect a separation. It is accomplished at last, and he proceeds 
alone in quest of his adviser. 



356 BLEAK HOUSE. 

By the cloisterly Temple, and by Whitefriars (there, not without 
a glance at Hanging-sword Alley, which would seem to be some- 
thing in his way), and by Blackfriars Bridge, and Blackfriars Road, 
Mr. George sedately marches to a street of little shops lying some- 
where in that ganglion of roads from Kent and Surrey, and of streets 
from the bridges of London, centring in the far-famed Elephant 
who has lost his Castle formed of a thousand four-horse coaches, to 
a stronger iron monster than he, ready to chop him into mince-meat 
any day he dares. To one of the little shops in this street, which 
is a musician's shop, having a few fiddles in the window, and some 
Pan's pipes and a tambourine, and a triangle, and certain elongated 
scraps of music, Mr. George directs his massive tread. And halting 
at a few paces from it, as he sees a soldierly looking woman, with her 
outer skirts tucked up, come forth with a small wooden tub, and in 
that tub commence a whisking and a splashing on the margin of the 
pavement, Mr. George says to himself, "She's as usual, washing 
greens. I never saw her, except upon a baggage-waggon, when she 
wasn't washing greens ! " 

The subject of this reflection is at all events so occupied in w^ash- 
ing greens at present, that she remains unsuspicious of Mr. George's 
approach ; until, lifting up herself and her tub together, when she 
has poured the water ofi" into the gutter, she finds him standing near 
her. Her reception of him is not flattering. 

" George, I never see you but I wish you was a hundred mile 
away ! " 

The trooper, without remarking on this welcome, follows into the 
musical instrument shop, where the lady places her tub of greens 
upon the counter, and having shaken hands with him, rests her arms . 
upon it. 

"I never," she says, "George, consider Matthew Bagnet safe at 
minute when you're near him. You are that restless and that} 
roving " 

" Yes ! I know I am, Mrs. Bagnet. I know I am." 

" You know you are ! " says Mrs. Bagnet. " What's the use of 
that ? Why are you 1 " 

" The nature of the animal, I suppose," returns the trooper good- 
humouredly. 

"Ah!" cries Mrs. Bagnet, something shrilly, "but what satis- 
faction will the nature of the animal be to me, when the animal 
shall have tempted my Mat away from the musical business to New 
Zealand or Australey ! " 

Mrs. Bagnet is not at all an ill-looking woman. Rather large- 
boned, a little coarse in the grain, and freckled by the sun and wind 
which have tanned her hair upon the forehead ; but healthy, whole- 



BLEAK HOUSE. 357 

some, and bright-eyed. A strong, busy, active, honest-faced woman, 
of from forty-five to fifty. Clean, hardy, and so economically 
dressed (though substantially), that the only article of ornament of 
which she stands possessed appears to be her wedding-ring ; around 
which her finger has grown to be so large since it was put on, that 
it will never come off" again until it shall mingle with Mrs. Bagnet's 
dust. 

"Mrs. Bagnet," says the trooper, "I am on my parole with you. 
Mat will get no harm from me. You may trust me so far." 

" Well, I think I may. But the very looks of you are unsettling," 
Mrs. Bagnet rejoins. " Ah, George, George ! If you had only 
settled down, and married Joe Pouch's widow when he died in 
North America, she'd have combed your hair for you." 

"It was a chance for me, certainly," returns the trooper, half- 
la ughingly, half-seriously, "but I shall never settle down into a 
respectable man now. Joe Pouch's widow might have done me 
good — there was something in her — and something of her — but 
I couldn't make up my mind to it. If I had had the luck to meet 
with such a wife as Mat found ! " 

Mrs. Bagnet, who seems in a virtuous way to be under little reserve 
with a good sort of fellow, but to be another good sort of fellow her- 
self for that matter, receives this compliment by flicking Mr. George 
in the face with a head of greens, and taking her tub into the little 
room behind the shop. 

" Why, Quebec, my poppet," says George, following, on invita- 
tion, into that apartment. " And little Malta, too ! Come and 
kiss your Bluffy ! " 

These young ladies — not supposed to have been actually chris- 
tened by the names applied to them, though always so called in 
the family, from the places of their birth in barracks — are respec- 
tively employed on three-legged stools : the younger (some five or six 
years old), in learning her letters out of a penny primer ; the elder 
(eight or nine perhaps), in teaching her, and sewing with great 
assiduity. Both hail Mr. George with acclamations as an old friend, 
and after some kissing and romping plant their stools beside him. 

"And how's young Woolwich ? " says Mr. George. 

" Ah ! There now ! " cries Mrs. Bagnet, turning about from her 
saucepans (for she is cooking dinner), with a bright flush on her face. 
" Would you believe it ? Got an engagement at the Theayter, with 
his father, to play the fife in a military piece." 

" Well done, my godson ! " cries Mr. George, slapping his thigh. 

" I believe you ! " says Mrs. Bagnet. " He's a Briton. That's 
what Woolwich is. A Briton." 

"And Mat blows away at his bassoon, and you're respectable 



358 BLEAK HOUSE. 

civilians one and all," says Mr. George. " Family people. Children 
gi'owing up. Mat's old mother in Scotland, and your old father 
somewhere else, corresponded with ; and helped a little ; and — 
well, well ! To be sure, I don't know why I shouldn't be wished a 
hundred mile away, for I have not much to do with all this ! " 

Mr. George is becoming thoughtful ; sitting before the fii-e in 
the whitewashed room, which has a sanded floor, and a barrack 
smell, and contains nothing sui^erfluous, and has not a visible speck 
of dirt or dust in it, from the faces of Quebec and Malta to the 
bright tin- pots and pannikins upon the dresser shelves ; — Mr. 
George is becoming thoughtful, sitting here whUe Mrs. Bagnet is 
busy, when Mr. Bagnet and young Woolwich opportunely come 
home. Mr. Bagnet is an ex-artilleryman, tall and upright, with 
shaggy eyebrows, and whiskers like the fibres of a cocoanut, not a 
hair upon his head, and a torrid complexion. His voice, short, 
deep, and resonant, is not at all unlike the tones of the instrument 
to which he is devoted. Indeed there may be generally observed 
in him an unbending, unyielding, brass-bound air, as if he were 
himself the bassoon of the human orchestra. Young Woolwich is 
the type and model of a young drummer. 

Both father and son salute the trooper heartily. He saying, in 
due season, that he has come to advise with Mr. Bagnet, Mr. 
Bagnet hospitably declares that he will hear of no business until 
after dinner ; and that his friend shall not partake of his counsel, 
without first partaking of boiled pork and greens. The trooper 
yielding to this invitation, he and Mr. Bagnet, not to embarrass 
the domestic preparations, go forth to take a turn up and down 
the little street, which they promenade with measured tread and 
folded arms, as if it were a rampart. 

" George," says Mr. Bagnet. " You know me. It's my old 
girl that advises. She has the head. But I never own to it be- 
fore her. Discipline must be maintained. Wait till the greens is 
off her mind. Then, we'll consult. Whatever the old girl says, 
do — do it ! " 

"I intend to. Mat," replies the other. "I would sooner take 
her opinion than that of a college." 

" College," returns Mr. Bagnet, in short sentences, bassoon-like. 
" What college could you leave — in another quarter of the world 
— with nothing but a grey cloak and an umbrella — to make its 
way home to Europe ? The old girl would do it to-morrow. Did 
it once ! " 

"You are right," says Mr. George. 

"What college," pursues Bagnet, "could you set up in life — 
with two penn'orth of white lime — a penn'orth of fuller's earth — 



BLEAK HOUSE. 359 

a ha'porth of sand — and the rest of the change out of sixpence, in 
money? That's what the old girl started on. In the present 
business." 

"I am rejoiced to hear it's thriving, Mat." 

"The old girl," says Mr. Bagnet, acquiescing, "saves. Has a 
stocking somewhere. With money in it. I never saw it. But I 
know she's got it. Wait till the greens is off her mind. Then 
she'll set you up." 

" She is a treasure ! " exclaims Mr. George. 

" She's more. But I never own to it before her. Discipline 
must be maintained. It was the old girl that brought out my 
musical abilities. I should have been in the artillery now, but for 
the old girl. Six years I hammered at the fiddle. Ten at the 
flute. The old girl said it wouldn't do ; intention good, but want 
of flexibility; try the bassoon. The old girl borrowed a bassoon 
from the band-master of the Rifle Regiment. I practised in the 
trenches. Got on, got another, get a living by it ! " 

George remarks that she looks as fresh as a rose, and as sound 
as an apple. 

"The old girl," says Mr. Bagnet in reply, "is a thoroughly fine 
woman. Consequently, she is like a thoroughly fine day. Gets 
finer as she gets on. I never saw the old girl's equal. But I 
never own to it before her. Discipline must be maintained." 

Proceeding to converse on indifferent matters, they walk up 
and down the little street, keeping step and time, until summoned 
by Quebec and Malta to do justice to the pork and greens ; over 
which Mrs. Bagnet, like a military chaplain, says a short grace. In 
the distribution of these comestibles, as in every other household 
duty, Mrs. Bagnet develops an exact system ; sitting with every 
dish before her ; allotting to every portion of pork its own portion 
of pot-liquor, greens, potatoes, and even mustard ; and serving it 
out complete. Having likewise served out the beer from a can, 
and thus supplied the mess with all things necessary, Mrs. Bagnet 
proceeds to satisfy her own hunger, which is in a healthy state. 
The kit of the mess, if the table furniture may be so denominated, 
is chiefly composed of utensils of horn and tin, that have done duty 
in several parts of the world. Young A¥oolwich's knife, in par- 
iticular, which is of the oyster kind, with the additional feature of 
a strong shutting-up movement which frequently balks the appetite 
lof that young musician, is mentioned as having gone in various 
hands the complete round of foreign service. 

The dinner done, Mrs. Bagnet, assisted by the younger branches 
(who polish their own cups and platters, knives and forks), makes 
an the dinner garniture shine as brightly as before, and puts it all 



360 BLEAK HOUSE. 

away ; first sweeping the hearth, to the end that Mr. Bagnet and 
the visitor may not be retarded in the smoking of their pipes. 
These household cares involve much pattening and counter-patten- 
ing in the back yard, and considerable use of a pail, which is finally 
so happy as to assist in the ablutions of Mrs. Bagnet herself. That 
old girl reappearing by-and-bye, quite fresh, and sitting down to her 
needlework, then and only then — the greens being only then to 
be considered as entirely off" her mind — Mr. Bagnet requests the 
trooper to state his case. 

This, Mr. George does with great discretion ; appearing to ad- 
dress himself to Mr. Bagnet, but having an eye solely on the old 
girl all the time, as Bagnet has himself. She, equally discreet, 
busies herself with her needlework. The case fully stated, Mr. 
Bagnet resorts to his standard artifice for the maintenance of 
discipline. 

" That's the whole of it, is it, George ? " says he. 

" That's the whole of it." 

"You act according to my opinion?" 

"I shall be guided," replies George, "entirely by it." 

" Old girl," says Mr. Bagnet, "give him my opinion. You know 
it. Tell him what it is." 

It is, that he cannot have too little to do with people who are 
too deep for him, and cannot be too careful of interference with 
matters he does not understand ; that the plain rule is, to do 
nothing in the dark, to be a party to nothing underhanded or 
mysterious, and never to put his foot where he cannot see the 
ground. This, in effect, is Mr. Bagnet's opinion as delivered 
through the old girl • and it so relieves Mr. George's mind, by 
confirming his own opinion and banishing his doubts, that he com- 
poses himself to smoke another pipe on that exceptional occasion, 
and to have a talk over old times with the whole Bagnet family, 
according to their various ranges of experience. 

Through these means it comes to pass, that Mr. George does not , 
again rise to his full height in that parlour until the time is draw- ' 
ing on when the bassoon and fife are expected by a British public 
at the theatre ; and as it takes time even then for Mr. George, in 
his domestic character of Bluffy, to take leave of Quebec and Malta, 
and insinuate a sponsorial shilling into the pocket of his godson, 
with felicitations on his success in life, it is dark when Mr. George 
again turns his face towards Lincoln's Inn Fields. 

"A family home," he ruminates, as he marches along, "however 
small it is, makes a man like me look lonely. But it's well I 
never made that evolution of matrimony. I sliouldn't have been fit 
for it. I am such a vagabond still, even at my present time of life, 



BLEAK HOUSE. 361 

that I couldn't hold to the gallery a month together, if it was a 
regular pursuit, or if I didn't camp there, gipsy fashion. Come ! I 
disgrace nobody and cumber nobody : that's something. I have 
not done that, for many a long year ! " 

So he whistles it off, and marches on. 

Arrived in Lincoln's Inn Fields, and mounting Mr. Tulkinghorn's 
stair, he finds the outer door closed, and the chambers shut ; but 
the trooper not knowing much about outer doors, and the staircase 
being dark besides, he is yet fumbling and groping about, hoping 
to discover a bell-handle or to open the door for himself, when Mr. 
Tulkinghorn comes up the stairs (quietly, of course), and angrily 
asks : 

" Who is that ? What are you doing there ? " 

"I ask your pardon, sir. It's George. The serjeant." 

"And couldn't George, the serjeant, see that my door was 
locked ? " 

"Why, no, sir, I couldn't. At any rate, I didn't," says the 
trooper, rather nettled. 

" Have you changed yovu' mind ? or are you in the same mind 1 " 
Mr. Tulkinghorn demands. But he knows well enough at a glance. 

" In the same mind, sir." 

" I thought so. That's sufficient. You can go. So, you are the 
man," says Mr. Tulkinghorn, opening his door with the key, "in 
whose hiding-place Mr. Gridley was found ? " 

"Yes, I am the man," says the trooper, stopping two or three 
stairs down. " What then, sir 1 " 

" What then ? I don't like your associates. You should not 
have seen the inside of my door this morning, if I had thought 
of your being that man. Gridley? A threatening, murderous, 
dangerous feUow." 

With these words, sjDoken in an unusually high tone for him, the 
lawyer goes into his rooms, and shuts the door with a thundering 
noise. 

Mr. George takes this dismissal in great dudgeon ; the greater, 
because a clerk coming up the stairs has heard the last words of all, 
and evidently applies them to him. " A pretty character to bear," 
the trooper growls with a hasty oath, as he strides down -stairs. 
" A threatening, murderous, dangerous fellow ! " and looking up, 
he sees the clerk looking down at him, and marking him as he 
passes a lamp. This so intensifies his dudgeon, that for five minutes 
he is in an ill-humour. But he whistles that off, like the rest of it ; 
and marches home to the Shooting Gallery. 



362 BLEAK HOUSE. 

CHAPTER XXVIII. 

THE IRONMASTER. 

Sir Leicester Dedlock has got the better, for the time being, 
of the family gout ; and is once more, in a literal no less than in a 
figurative point of view, upon his legs. He is at his place in Lin- 
colnshire ; but the waters are out again on the low-lying grounds, 
and the cold and damp steal into Ohesney Wold, though well de- 
fended, and eke into Sir Leicester's bones. The blazing fires of 
faggot and coal — Dedlock timber and antediluvian forest — that 
blaze upon the broad wide hearths, and wink in the twilight on the 
frowning woods, sullen to see how trees are sacrificed, do not exclude 
the enemy. The hot-water pipes that trail themselves all over the 
house, the cushioned doors and windows, and the screens and curtains, 
fail to supply the fires' deficiencies, and to satisfy Sir Leicester's need. 
Hence the fashionable intelligence proclaims one morning to the 
listening earth, that Lady Dedlock is expected shortly to return to 
town for a few weeks. 

It is a melancholy truth that even great men have their poor 
relations. Indeed great men have often more than their fair share 
of poor relations ; inasmuch as very red blood of the superior 
quality, like inferior blood unlawfully shed, ivill cry aloud, and ivill 
be heard. Sir Leicester's cousins, in the remotest degree, are so 
many Murders, in the respect that they "will out." Among 
whom there are cousins who are so poor, that one might almost.' 
dare to think it would have been the happier for them never to have 
been plated links upon the Dedlock chain of gold, but to have been 
made of common iron at first, and done base service. 

Service, however (with a few limited resei-vations : genteel but 
not profitable), they may not do, being of the Dedlock dignity. 
So they visit their richer cousins, and get into debt when they can, 
and live but shabbily when they can't, and find — the women no 
husbands, and the men no wives — and ride in borrowed carriages, 
and sit at feasts that are never of their own making, and so go 
through high life. The rich family sum has been divided by so i 
many figures, and they are the something over that nobody knows ; 
what to do with. 

Everybody on Sir Leicester Dedlock's side of the question, and of 
his way of thinking, would appear to be his cousin more or less. 
From my Lord Boodle, through the Duke of Foodie, down to 
Noodle, Sir Leicester, like a glorious spider, stretches his threads 
of relationship. But while he is stately in the cousinship of the 
Everybodys, he is a kind and generous man, according to his digni- 



BLEAK HOUSE. 363 

fied way, in the cousinship of the Nobodys ; and at the present time, 
in despite of the damp, he stays out the visit of several such cousins 
at Chesney Wold, with the constancy of a martyr. 

Of these, foremost in the first rank stands Volumnia Dedlock, 
a young lady (of sixty), who is doubly highly related ; having the 
honour to be a poor relation, by the mother's side, to another great 
family. Miss Volumnia, displaying in early life a pretty talent for 
cutting ornaments out of coloured paper, and also for singing to the 
guitar in the Spanish tongue, and propounding French conundrums 
in countiy houses, passed the twenty years of her existence between 
twenty and forty in a sufficiently agreeable manner. Lapsing then 
out of date, and being considered to bore mankind by her vocal 
performances in the Spanish language, she retired to Bath ; where 
she lives slenderly on an annual present from Sir Leicester, and 
whence she makes occasional resurrections in the country houses of 
her cousins. She has an extensive acquaintance at Bath among 
appalling old gentlemen with thin legs and nankeen trousers, and is 
of high standing in that dreaiy city. But she is a little dreaded 
elsewhere, in consequence of an indiscreet profusion in the article of 
rouge, and persistency in an obsolete pearl necklace like a rosary of 
little bird's-eggs. 

In any country in a wholesome state, Volumnia would be a clear 
case for the pension list. Efforts have been made to get her on it ; 
and when William Buffy came in, it was fiiUy expected that her 
name would be put down for a couple of hundred a-year. But 
William Buffy somehow discovered, contrary to all expectation, 
that these were not times when it could be done ; and this was 
the first clear indication Sir Leicester Dedlock had conveyed to him, 
: that the country was going to pieces. 

There is likewise the Honourable Bob Stables, who can make 
,f warm mashes with the skill of a veterinary surgeon, and is a better 
,i shot than most gamekeepers. He has been for some time par- 
I ticularly desirous to serve his country in a post of good emoluments, 
,. unaccompanied by any trouble or responsibility. In a well regu- 
i; lated body politic, this natural desire on the part of a spirited young 
I gentleman so highly connected, would be speedily recognised ; but 
;-! somehow William Buffy found when he came in, that these were 
not times in which he could manage that little matter, either ; and 
('this was the second indication Sir Leicester Dedlock had conveyed 
, to him, that the country was going to pieces. 

1 The rest of the cousins are ladies and gentlemen of various ages 

i and capacities ; the major part, amiable and sensible, and likely to 

have done well enough in life if they could have overcome their 

i cousinship ; as it is, they are almost all a little worsted by it, and 



364 BLEAK HOUSE. 

lounge in purposeless and listless paths, and seem to be quite as 
much at a loss how to dispose of themselves, as anybody else can 
be how to dispose of them. 

In this society, and where not, my Lady Dedlock reigns 
supreme. Beautiful, elegant, accomplished, and powerful in her 
little world (for the world of fashion does not stretch all the way 
from pole to pole), her influence in Sir Leicester's house, however 
haughty and indifferent her manner, is greatly to improve it and 
refine it. The cousins, even those older cousins who were par- 
alysed when Sir Leicester married her, do her feudal homage ; and 
the Honourable Bob Stables daily repeats to some chosen person, 
between breakfast and lunch, his favourite original remark, that 
she is the best-groomed woman in the whole stud. 

Such the guests in the long drawing-room at Chesney Wold this 
dismal night, when the step on the Ghost's Walk (inaudible here, 
however,) might be the step of a deceased cousin shut out in the 
cold. It is near bedtime. Bedroom fires blaze brightly all over 
the house, raising ghosts of grim furniture on wall and ceiling. 
Bedroom candlesticks bristle on the distant table by the door, and 
cousins yawn on ottomans. Cousins at the piano, cousins at the 
soda-water tray, cousins rising from the card-table, cousins gath- 
ered round the fire. Standing on one side of his own peculiar fire 
(for there are two), Sir Leicester. On the opposite side of the 
broad hearth, my Lady at her table. Volumnia, as one of the 
more privileged cousins, in a luxurious chair between them. Sir 
Leicester glancing, with magnificent displeasure, at the rouge and 
the pearl necklace. 

" I occasionally meet on my staircase here," drawls Volumnia, 
whose thoughts perhaps are already hopping up it to bed, after a- 
long evening of very desultory talk, " one of the prettiest girls, I 
think, that I ever saw in my life." 

" A protegee of my Lady's," observes Sir Leicester. 

" I thought so. I felt sure that some uncommon eye must have, 
picked that girl out. She really is a marvel. A dolly sort o^ 
beauty perhaps," says Miss Volumnia, reserving her own sort,' 
" but in its way, perfect ; such bloom I never saw ! " 

Sir Leicester, with his magnificent glance of displeasure at the 
rouge, appears to say so too. 

"Indeed," remarks my Lady, languidly, "if there is any un- 
common eye in the case, it is Mrs. Rouncewell's, and not mine. 
Rosa is her discovery." 

" Your maid, I suppose 1 " 

"No. My anything; pet — secretary — messenger — I don't 
know what." 



BLEAK HOUSE. 365 

" You like to have her about you, as you would like to have a 
flower, or a bird, or a picture, or a poodle — no, not a poodle, 
though — or anything else that was equally pretty ? " says Vol- 
umnia, sympathising. " Yes, how charming now ! and how well 
that delightful old soul Mrs. Rouncewell is looking. She must be 
an immense age, and yet she is as active and handsome ! — She is 
the dearest friend I have, positively ! " 

Sir Leicester feels it to be right and fitting that the housekeeper 
of Chesney Wold should be a remarkable person. Apart from 
that, he has a real regard for Mrs. Eouncewell, and likes to hear 
her praised. So he says, "You are right, Volumnia;" which 
Volumnia is extremely glad to hear. 

" She has no daughter of her own, has she ? " 

"Mrs. Rouncewell? No, Volumnia. She has a son. Indeed, 
she had two." 

My Lady, whose chronic malady of boredom has been sadly 
aggravated by Volumnia this evening, glances wearily towards the 
candlesticks and heaves a noiseless sigh. 

" And it is a remarkable example of the confusion into which 
the present age has fallen ; of the obliteration of landmarks, the 
opening of floodgates, and the uprooting of distinctions," says Sir 
Leicester with stately gloom ; " that I have been informed, by 
Mr. Tulkinghorn, that Mrs. Rouncewell's son has been invited to 
go into Parliament." 

Miss Volumnia utters a little sharp scream. 

"Yes, indeed," repeats Sir Leicester. "Into Parliament." 

" I never heard of such a thing ! Good gracious, what is the 
man 1 " exclaims Volumnia. 

" He is called, I believe — an — Ironmaster." Sir Leicester says 
it slowly, and with gravity and doubt, as not being sure but that- 
he is called a Lead-mistress ; or that the right word may be some 
other word expressive of some other relationship to some other 
metal. 

Volumnia utters another little scream. 

"He has declined the proposal, if my information from Mr. 
Tulkinghorn be correct, as I have no doubt it is, Mr. Tulkinghorn 
being always correct and exact ; still that does not," says Sir 
Leicester, " that does not lessen the anomaly ; which is fraught 
with strange considerations — startling considerations, as it appears 
to me." 

Miss Volumnia rising with a look candlestick- wards, Sir Leices- 
ter politely performs the grand tour of the drawing-room, brings 
one, and lights it at my Lady's shaded lamp. 

" I must beg of you, my Lady," he says while doing so, " to re- 



366 BLEAK HOUSE. 

main a few moments ; for this individual of whom I speak, arrived 
this evening shortly before dinner, and requested — in a very be- 
coming note ; " Sir Leicester, with his habitual regard to truth, 
dwells upon it ; " I am bound to say, in a very becoming and well 
expressed note — the favour of a short interview with yourself and 
??iyself, on the subject of this young girl. As it appeared that he 
wished to depart to-night, I replied that we would see him before 
retiring." 

Miss Volumnia with a third little scream takes flight, wishing 
her hosts — Lud ! — well rid of the • — what is it ? — Ironmaster ! 

The other cousins soon disperse, to the last cousin there. Sir 
Leicester rings the bell. " Make my compliments to Mr. Rounce- 
well, in the housekeeper's apartments, and say I can receive him 
now." 

My Lady, who has heard all this with slight attention outwardly, 
looks towards Mr. Rouncewell as he comes in. He is a little over 
fifty perhaps, of a good figure, like his mother ; and has a clear 
voice, a broad forehead from which his dark hair has retired, and 
a shrewd, though open face. He is a responsible-looking gentle- 
man dressed in black, portly enough, but strong and active. Has 
a perfectly natural and easy air, and is not in the least embarrassed 
by the great presence into which he comes. 

" Sir Leicester and Lady Dedlock, as I have already apologised 
for intruding on you, I cannot do better than be very brief. I 
thank you. Sir Leicester." 

The head of the Dedlocks has motioned towards a sofa between 
himself and my Lady. Mr. Rouncewell quietly takes his seat there. 

" In these busy times, when so many great undertakings are m 
progress, people like myself have so many workmen in so many 
places, that we are always on the flight." 

Sir Leicester is content enough that the ironmaster should feel 
that there is no hurry there ; there, in that ancient house, rooted 
in that quiet park, where the ivy and the moss have had time 
to mature, and the gnarled and warted elms, and the umbrageous 
oaks, stand deep in the fern and leaves of a hundred years ; and 
where the sun-dial on the terrace has dumbly recorded for centuries 
that time, which was as much the property of every Dedlock — 
while he lasted — as the house and lands. Sir Leicester sits 
down in an easy chair, opposing his repose and that of Chesney 
Wold to the restless flights of ironmasters. 

"Lady Dedlock has been so kind," jiroceeds Mr. Rouncewell, 
with a respectful glance and a bow that way, "as to place near 
her a young beauty of the name of Rosa. Now, my son has 
fallen in love with Rosa ; and has asked my consent to his pro- 



BLEAK HOUSE. 367 

posing marriage to her, and to their becoming engaged if she 
will take him — which I suppose she will. I have never seen 
Rosa until to-day, but I have some confidence in my son's good 
sense — ^even in love. I find her what he represents her, to the 
best of my judgment ; and my mother speaks of her with great 
commendation." 

" She in all respects deserves it," says my Lady. 

'' I am happy, Lady Dedlock, that you say so ; and I need 
not comment on the value to me of your kind opinion of her." 

"That," observes Sir Leicester, with unspeakable gi-andeur; 
for he thinks the ironmaster a little too glib; "must be quite 
unnecessary." 

" Quite unnecessary. Sir Leicester. Now, my son is a very 
young man, and Rosa is a very young woman. As I made my 
vay, so my son must make his ; and his being married at pres- 
ent is out of the question. But supposing I gave my consent 
:o his engaging himself to this pretty girl, if this pretty girl will 
engage herself to him, I think it a piece of candour to say at once 
— I am sure. Sir Leicester and Lady Dedlock, you will understand 
and excuse me — I should make it a condition that she did not re- 
main at Chesney Wold. Therefore, before communicating further 
with my son, I take the liberty of saying that if her removal would 
be in any way inconvenient or objectionable, I will hold the matter 
over with him for any reasonable time, and leave it precisely where 
it is." 

Not remain at Chesney Wold ! Make it a condition ! All Sir 
Leicester's old misgivings relative to Wat Tyler, and the people in 
the iron districts who do nothing but turn out by torchlight, come 
in a shower upon his head : the fine grey hair of which, as well as 
of his whiskers, actually stirs with indignation. 

"Am I to understand, sir," says Sir Leicester, "and is my Lady 
to understand ; " he brings her in thus specially, first as a point 
of gallantry, and next as a point of prudence, having great reliance 
on her sense ; " am I to understand, Mr. Rouncewell, and is my 
Lady to understand, sir, that you consider this young woman too 
good for Chesney Wold, or likely to be injured by remaining here ? " 

" Certainly not. Sir Leicester." 

" I am glad to hear it." Sir Leicester very lofty indeed. 

" Pray, Mr. Rouncewell," says my Lady, warning Sir Leicester 
off with the slightest gesture of her pretty hand, as if he were a fly, 
"explain to me what you mean." 

" Willingly, Lady Dedlock. There is nothing I could desire 
more." 

Addressing her composed face, whose intelligence, however, is too 



368 BLEAK HOUSE. 

quick and active to be concealed by any studied impassiveness, 
however habitual, to the strong Saxon face of the visitor, a picture 
of resolution and perseverance, my Lady listens with attention, 
occasionally slightly bending her head. 

" I am the son of your housekeeper, Lady Dedlock, and passed 
my childhood about this house. My mother has lived here half a 
century, and will die here I have no doubt. She is one of those 
examples — perhaps as good a one as there is — of love, and attach- 
ment, and fidelity in such a station, which England may well be 
proud of ; but of which no order can appropriate the whole pride or 
the whole merit, because such an instance bespeaks high worth on 
two sides ; on the great side, assuredly ; on the small one, no less 
assuredly." 

Sir Leicester snorts a little to hear the law laid down in this way j 
but in his honour and his love of truth, he freely, though silently, 
admits the justice of the ironmaster's proposition. 

" Pardon me for saying what is so obvious, but I wouldn't have 
it hastily supposed," with the least tui"n of his eyes towards Sir 
Leicester, " that I am ashamed of my mother's position here, or 
wanting in all just respect for Chesney Wold and the family. I 
certainly may have desired — I certainly have desired, Lady Ded- 
lock — that my mother should retire after so many years, and end 
her days with me. But, as I have found that to sever this strong 
bond would be to break her heart, I have long abandoned that 
idea." 

Sir Leicester very magnificent again, at the notion of Mrs. 
Rouncewell being spirited ofi" from her natural home, to end her 
days with an ironmaster. 

"I have been," proceeds the visitor, in a modest clear way, "an 
apprentice, and a workman. I have lived on workman's wages, 
years and years, and beyond a certain point have had to educate 
myself My wife was a foreman's daughter, and plainly brought 
up. We have three daughters, besides this son of whom I have 
spoken; and being fortunately able to give them greater advan- 
tages than we had ourselves, we have educated them well ; very 
well. It has been one of our great cares and pleasures to make 
them worthy of any station." 

A little boastfulness in his fatherly tone here, as if he added in 
his heart, "even of the Chesney Wold station." Not a little more 
magnificence, therefore, on the part of Sir Leicester. 

" All this is so frequent. Lady Dedlock, where I live, and among 
the class to which I belong, that what would be generally called 
unequal marriages are not of such rare occurrence with us as else- 
where. A son will sometimes make it known to his father that he 



BLEAK HOUSE. 369 

has fallen in love, say with a young woman in the factory. The 
father, who once worked in a factory himself, will be a little disap- 
pointed at first, very possibly. It may be that he had other views 
for his son. However, the chances are, that having ascertained the 
young woman to be of unblemished character, he will say to his 
son, ' I must be quite sure that you are in earnest here. This is a 
serious matter for both of you. Therefore I shall have this girl 
educated for two years ' — or, it may be — 'I shall place this girl 
at the same school with your sisters for such a time, during which 
you will give me your word and honour to see her only so often. 
If, at the expiration of that time, when she has so far profited by 
her advantages as that you may be upon a fair equality, you are 
both in the same mind, I will do my part to make you happy.' 
I know of several cases such as I describe, my Lady, and I think 
they indicate to me my own course now." 

Sir Leicester's magnificence explodes. Calmly, but terribly. 

"Mr. Rouncewell," says Sir Leicester, with his right hand in the 
breast of his blue coat — the attitude of state in which he is painted 
in the gallery : "do you draw a parallel between Chesney Wold, 

and a " here he resists a disposition to choke "a 

factory ? " 

" I need not rejjly. Sir Leicester, that the two places are very 
diSerent ; but, for the purposes of this case, I think a parallel may 
be justly drawn between them." 

Sir Leicester directs his majestic glance down one side of the 
long drawing-room, and up the other, before he can believe that he 
is awake. 

" Are you aware, sir, that this young woman whom my Lady — 
njy Lady — has placed near her person, was brought up at the 
village school outside the gates ? " 

" Sir Leicester, I am quite aware of it. A very good school it is, 
and handsomely supported by this family." 

"Then, Mr. Rouncewell," returns Sir Leicester, "the application 
of what you have said, is, to me, incomprehensible." 

"Will it be more comprehensible. Sir Leicester, if I say," the 
ironmaster is reddening a little, " that I do not regard the village 
school as teaching everything desirable to be known by my son's 
wife?" 

From the village school of Chesney Wold, intact as it is this 
minute, to the whole framework of society ; from the whole frame- 
work of society, to the aforesaid framework receiving tremendous 
cracks in consequence of people (ironmasters, lead-mistresses, and 
what not) not minding their catechism, and getting out of the station 
unto which they are called — necessarily and for ever, according to 

2b 



370 BLEAK HOUSE. 

Sir Leicester's rapid logic, the first station in which they liappen to 
find themselves ; and from that, to their educating other people out 
of their stations, and so obliterating the landmarks, and opening the 
floodgates, and all the rest of it ; this is the swift progress of the 
Dedlock mind. 

" My Lady, I beg your pardon. Permit me, for one moment ! " 
She has given a faint indication of intending to speak. "Mr. 
Rouncewell, our views of duty, and our views of station, and our 
views of education, and our views of — in short, all our views — are 
so diametrically opposed, that to prolong this discussion must be 
repellant to your feelings, and repellant to my own. This young 
woman is honoured with my Lady's notice and favour. If she wishes 
to withdraw herself from that notice and favour, or if she chooses 
to place herself under the influence of any one who may in his peculiar 
opinions — you will allow me to say, in his peculiar opinions, though 
I readily admit that he is not accountable for them to me — who 
may, in his peculiar opinions, withdraw her from that notice and 
favour, she is at any time at liberty to do so. We are obliged to 
you for the plainness with which you have spoken. It will have 
no effect of itself, one way or other, on the young woman's posi- 
tion here. Beyond this, we can make no terms ; and here we beg 
— if you will be so good — to leave the subject." 

The visitor pauses a moment to give my Lady an opportunity, 
but she says nothing. He then rises and replies : 

" Sir Leicester and Lady Dedlock, allow me to thank you for 
your attention, and only to observe that I shall veiy seriously recom- 
mend my son to conquer his present inclinations. Good night ! " 

" Mr. Rouncewell," says Sir Leicester, with all the nature of a 
gentleman shining in him, "it is late, and the roads are dark. I 
hope your time is not so precious but that you will allow my Lady 
and myself to offer you the hospitality of Chesney Wold, for to- 
night at least." 

" I hope so," adds my Lady. 

"I am much obliged to you, but I have to travel all night, 
in order to reach a distant part of the country, punctually at an 
appointed time in the morning." 

Therewith the ironmaster takes his departure ; Sir Leicester ring- 
ing the bell, and my Lady rising as he leaves the room. 

When my Lady goes to her boudoir, she sits down thoughtfully 
by the fire ; and, inattentive to the Ghost's Walk, looks at Rosa, 
writing in an inner room. Presently my Lady calls her. 

" Come to me, child. Tell me the truth. Are you in love 1 " 

" ! My Lady ! " 

My Lady, looking at the downcast and blushing face, says smiling : 



BLEAK HOUSE. 371 

" Who is it ? Is it Mrs. Rouncewell's grandson ? " 

" Yes, if you please, my Lady. But I don't know that I am in 
love with him — yet." 

"Yet, you silly little thing ! Do you know that he loves t/ou, 
yet?" 

"I think he likes me a little, my Lady." And Rosa bursts into 
tears. 

Is this Lady Dedlock standing beside the village beauty, smooth- 
ing her dark hair with that motherly touch, and watching her with 
eyes so fidl of musing interest ? Aye, indeed it is ! 

"Listen to me, child. You are young and true, and I believe 
you are attached to me." 

" Indeed I am, my Lady. Indeed there is nothing in the world 
I wouldn't do, to show how much." 

" And I don't think you would wish to leave me just yet, Rosa, 
even for a lover." 

" No, my Lady ! no ! " Rosa looks up for the first time, 
quite frightened at the thought. 

" Confide in me, my child. Don't fear me. I wish you to be 
happy, and will make you so — if I can make anybody happy on 
this earth." 

Rosa, with fresh tears, kneels at her feet and kisses her hand. 
My Lady takes the hand with which she has caught it, and, stand- 
ing with her eyes fixed on the fire, puts it about and about between 
her own two hands, and gradually lets it fall. Seeing her so ab- 
sorbed, Rosa softly withdraws ; but still my Lady's eyes are on the 
fire. 

In search of what ? Of any hand that is no more, of any hand 
that never was, of any touch that might have magically changed 
her life ? Or does she listen to the Ghost's Walk, and think what 
step does it most resemble 1 A man's 1 A woman's 1 The pat- 
tering of a little child's feet, ever coming on — on — on ? Some 
melancholy influence is upon her ; or why should so proud a lady 
close the doors, and sit alone upon the hearth so desolate ? 

Volumnia is away next day, and all the cousins are scattered 
before dinner. Not a cousin of the batch but is amazed to hear 
from Sir Leicester, at breakfast-time, of the obliteration of land- 
marks, and opening of floodgates, and cracking of the framework of 
society, manifested through Mrs. Rouncewell's son. Not a cousin 
of the batch but is really indignant, and connects it with the feeble- 
ness of William Buffy when in office, and really does feel deprived 
of a stake in the country — or the pension list — or something — 
by fraud and wrong. As to Volumnia, she is handed down the 
great staircase by Sir Leicester, as eloquent upon the theme, as if 



372 BLEAK HOUSE. 

there were a general rising in the North of England to obtain her 
rouge-pot and pearl necklace. And thus, with a clatter of maids 
and valets — for it is one appurtenance of their cousinship, that, 
however difficult they may find it to keep themselves, they tmist 
keep maids and valets — the cousins disperse to the four winds of 
heaven ; and the one wintry wind that blows to-day shakes a 
shower from the trees near the deserted house, as if all the cousins 
had been changed into leaves. 



CHAPTER XXIX. 

THE YOUNG MAN. 

Chesney Wold is shut up, carpets are rolled into great scrolls 
in corners of comfortless rooms, bright damask does penance in 
brown holland, carving and gilding puts on mortification, and the 
Dedlock ancestors retire from the light of day again. Around and 
around the house the leaves fall thick — but never fast, for they 
come circling down with a dead lightness that is sombre and slow. 
Let the gardener sweep and sweep the turf as he will, and press 
the leaves into full barrows, and Avheel them off^, still they lie ankle- 
deep. Howls the shrill wind round Chesney Wold ; the sharp 
rain beats, the windows rattle, and the chimneys growl. Mists 
hide in the avenues, veil the points of vieM^, and move in funeral 
wise across the rising grounds. On all the house there is a cold, 
blank smell, like the smell of the little church, though something 
dryer : suggesting that the dead and buried Dedlocks walk there, 
in the long nights, and leave the flavour of their graves behind 
them. 

But the house in town, which is rarely in the same mind as 
Chesney Wold at the same time ; seldom rejoicing when it rejoices, 
or mourning when it mourns, excepting when a Dedlock dies ; the 
house in town shines out awakened. As warm and bright as so 
much state may be, as delicately redolent of pleasant scents that 
bear no trace of winter as hothouse flowers can make it ; soft and 
hushed, so that the ticking of the clocks and the crisp burning of 
the fires alone disturb the stillness in the rooms ; it seems to wrap 
those chilled bones of Sir Leicester's in rainbow-coloured wool. 
And Sir Leicester is glad to repose in dignified contentment before 
the gi'eat fire in the library, condescendingly perusing the backs 
of his books, or honouring the fine arts with a glance of approba- 
tion. For he has his pictures, ancient and modern. Some, of the 



BLEAK HOUSE. 373 

Fancy Ball School in which Art occasionally condescends to become 
a master, which would be best catalogued like the miscellaneous 
articles in a sale. As, " Three high-backed chairs, a table and cover, 
long-necked bottle (containing wine), one flask, one Spanish female's 
costume, three-quarter face portrait of Miss Jogg the model, and a 
suit of armour containing Don Quixote." Or, " One stone terrace 
(cracked), one gondola in distance, one Venetian senator's dress 
complete, richly embroidered white satin costume with profile 
portrait of Miss Jogg the model, one scimetar superbly mounted 
in gold with jewelled handle, elaborate Moorish dress (very rare), 
and Othello." 

Mr. Tulkinghorn comes and goes pretty often ; there being estate 
business to do, leases to be renewed, and so on. He sees my Lady 
pretty often, too ; and he and she are as comjjosed, and as indifferent, 
and take as little heed of one another, as ever. Yet it may be that 
my Lady fears this Mr. Tulkinghorn, and that he knows it. It 
may be that he pursues her doggedly and steadily, with no touch 
of compunction, remorse, or pity. It may be that her beauty, and 
all the state and brilliancy surrounding her, only give him the 
greater zest for what he is set upon, and make him the more in- 
flexible in it. Whether he be cold and cruel, whether immovable 
in what he has made his duty, whether absorbed in love of power, 
whether determined to have nothing hidden from him in ground 
where he has burrowed among secrets all his life, whether he in 
his heart despises the splendour of which he is a distant beam, 
whether he is always treasuring up slights and offences in the 
affability of his gorgeous clients — whether he be any of this, or 
all of this, it may be that my Lady had better have five thousand 
pairs of fashionable eyes upon her, in distrustful vigilance, than the 
two eyes of this rusty lawyer, wth his wisp of neckcloth and his 
dull black breeches tied with ribbons at the knees. 

Sir Leicester sits in my Lady's room — that room in which Mr. 
Tulkinghorn read the affidavit in Jarndyce and Jamdyce — par- 
ticularly complacent. My Lady — as on that day — ^sits before 
the fire with her screen in her hand. Sir Leicester is particularly 
complacent, because he has found in his newspaper some congenial 
remarks bearing directly on the floodgates and the framework of 
society. They apply so hapi^ily to the late case, that Sir Leicester 
has come from the library to my Lady's room expressly to read them 
aloud. " The man who wrote this article," he observes by way of 
preface, nodding at the fii'e as if he were nodding down at the 
man from a Mount, " has a well-balanced mind." 

The man's mind is not so well balanced but that he bores my 
Lady, who, after a languid effort to listen, or rather a languid 



374 BLEAK HOUSE. 

resignation of herself to a show of listening, becomes distraught, 
and falls into a contemplation of the fire as if it were her fire at 
Chesney Wold, and she had never left it. Sir Leicester, quite 
unconscious, reads on through his double eye-glass, occasionally 
stopping to remove his glass and express approval, as " Very true 
indeed," "Very properly put," "I have frequently made the same 
remark myself ; " invariably losing his place after each observation, 
and going up and down the column to find it again. 

Sir Leicester is reading, with infinite gravity and state, when 
the door opens, and the Mercury in powder makes this strange 
announcement : 

"The young man, my Lady, of the name of Gruppy." 

Sir Leicester pauses, stares, repeats in a killing voice : 

" The young man of the name of Guppy ? " 

Looking round, he beholds the young man of the name of 
Guppy, much discomfited, and not presenting a very impressive 
letter of introduction in his manner and appearance. 

"Pray," says Sir Leicester to Mercury, "what do you mean by 
announcing with this abruptness a young man of the name of 
Guppy?" 

"I beg your pardon. Sir Leicester, but my Lady said she would 
see the young man whenever he called. I was not aware that you 
were here. Sir Leicester." 

With this apology. Mercury directs a scornful and indignant 
look at the young man of the name of Guppy, which plainly 
says, " What do you come calling here for, and getting me into a 
row ? " 

" It's quite right. I gave him those directions," says my Lady. 
"Let the young man wait." 

" By no means, my Lady. Since he has your orders to come, I 
will not interrupt you." Sir Leicester in his gallantly retires, 
rather declining to accept a bow from the young man as he goes out, 
and majestically supposing him to be some shoemaker of intrusive 
appearance. 

Lady Dedlock looks imperiously at her visitor, when the ser- 
vant has left the room ; casting her eyes over him from head to 
foot. She suffers him to stand by the door, and asks him what he 
wants ? 

" That your ladyship would have the kindness to oblige me with 
a little conversation," returns Mr. Guppy, embarrassed. 

" You are, of course, the person who has written me so many 
letters ? " 

" Several, your ladyship. Several, before your ladyship con- 
descended to favour me with an answer." 



37(3 BLEAK HOUSE. 

" And could you not take the same means of rendering a con- 
versation unnecessary ? Can you not still 1 " 

Mr. Guppy screws his mouth into a silent " No ! " and shakes 
his head. 

"You have been strangely importunate. If it should appear, 
after all, that what you have to say does not concern me — and I 
don't know how it can, and don't expect that it will — you will 
allow me to cut you short with but little ceremony. Say what 
you have to say, if you please." 

My Lady, with a careless toss of her screen, turns herself towards 
the fire again, sitting almost with her back to the young man of 
the name of G-uppy. 

" With your ladyship's permission, then," says the young man, 
" I will now enter on my business. Hem ! I am, as I told your 
ladyship in my first letter, in the law. Being in the law, I have 
learnt the habit of not committing myself in writing, and therefore 
I did not mention to your ladyship the name of the firm with which 
I am connected, and in which my standing — and I may add in- 
come — is tolerably good. I may now state to your ladyship, in 
confidence, that the name of that firm is Kenge and Carboy, of 
Lincoln's Inn ; which may not be altogether unknown to your 
ladyship in connection with the case in Chancery of Jarndyce and 
Jarndyce." 

My Lady's figure begins to be expressive of some attention. 
She has ceased to toss the screen, and holds it as if she were 
listening. 

" Now, I may say to your ladyship at once," says Mr. Guppy, a 
little emboldened, " it is" no matter arising out of Jarndyce and 
Jarndyce that made me so desirous to speak to your ladyship, 
which conduct I have no doubt did appear, and does appear, 
obtrusive — in fact, almost blackguardly." After waiting for a 
moment to receive some assurance to the contrary, and not receiv- 
ing any, Mr. Guppy proceeds. "If it had been Jarndyce and 
Jarndyce, I should have gone at once to your ladyship's solicitor, 
Mr. Tulkinghorn of the Fields. I have the pleasure of being 
acquainted with Mr. Tulkinghorn — at least we move when we 
meet one another — and if it had been any business of that sort, I 
should have gone to him." 

My Lady turns a little round, and says "You had better sit 
down." 

"Thank your ladyship." Mr. Guppy does so. "Now, your 
ladyship ; " Mr. Guppy refers to a little slip of paper on which he 
has made small notes of his line of argument, and which seems to 
involve him in the densest obscurity whenever he looks at it ; "I 



BLEAK HOUSE. 377 

— yes ! — I place myself entirely in your ladyship's hands. If 
your ladyship was to make any complaint to Kenge and Carboy, 
or to Mr. Tulkinghorn, of the present visit, I should be placed in a 
very disagreeable situation. That, I openly admit. Consequently, 
I rely upon your ladyship's honour." 

My Lady, with a disdainful gesture of the hand that holds the 
screen, assures him of his being worth no complaint from her. 

"Thank your ladyship," says Mr. Guppy, "quite satisfactory. 
Now — I — dash it ! — The fact is, that I put down a head or two 
here of the order of the points I thought of touching upon, and 
they're written short, and I can't quite make out what they mean. 
If your ladyship will excuse me taking it to the window half a 
moment, I " 

Mr. Guppy going to the window tumbles into a pair of love- 
birds, to whom he says in his confusion, " I beg your pardon, I am 
sure." This does not tend to the greater legibility of his notes. 
He murmurs, growing warm and red, and holding the slip of paper 
now close to his eyes, now a long way off, " C. S. What's C. S. for ? 
! ' E. S. ! ' 0, I know ! Yes, to be sure ! " And comes back 
enlightened. 

"I am not aware," says Mr. Guppy, standing midway between 
my Lady and his chair, "whether your ladyship ever happened 
to hear of, or to see, a young lady of the name of Miss Esther 
Summerson." 

My Lady's eyes look at him full. " I saw a young lady of that 
name not long ago. This past autumn." 

" Now, did it strike your ladyship that she was like anybody ? " 
asks Mr. Guppy, crossing his arms, holding his head on one side, 
and scratching the corner of his mouth with his memoranda. 

My Lady removes her eyes from him no more. 

"No." 

" Not like your ladyship's family 1 " 

" No." 

" I think your ladyship," says Mr. Guppy, " can hardly remem- 
ber Miss Summerson's face 1 " 

" I remember the young lady very well. What has this to do 
with me?" 

" Your ladyship, I do assure you, that having Miss Summerson's 
image imprinted on my 'art — which I mention in confidence — I 
found, when I had the honour of going over your ladyship's man- 
sion of Chesney Wold, while on a short out in the county of Lin- 
colnshire with a friend, such a resemblance between Miss Esther 
Summerson and your ladyship's own portrait, that it completely 
knocked me over; so much so, that I didn't at the moment even 



378 BLEAK HOUSE. 

know what it was that knocked me over. And now I have the 
honour of behokling your ladyship near, (I have often, since that, 
taken the liberty of looking at your ladyship in your carriage in 
the park, when I dare say you was not aware of me, but I never 
saw your ladyship so near,) it's really more surprising than I 
thought it." 

Young man of the name of Guppy ! There have been times, 
when ladies lived in strongholds, and had unscrupulous attendants 
within call, when that poor life of yours would not have been 
worth a minute's purchase, with those beautiful eyes looking at you 
as they look at this moment. 

My Lady, slowly using her little hand-screen as a fan, asks him 
again, what he supposes that his taste for likenesses has to do 
with her? 

"Your ladyship," replies Mr. Guppy, again referring to his 
paper, " I am coming to that. Dash these notes ! ! ' Mrs. 
Chadband.' Yes." Mr. Guppy draws his chair a little forward, 
and seats himself again. My Lady reclines in her chair com- 
posedly, though with a trifle less of graceful ease than usual, per- 
haps ; and never falters in her steady gaze. "A — stop a minute, 
though ! " Mr. Guppy refers again. " E. S. twice ? O yes ! yes, 
I see my way now, right on." 

Rolling up the slip of paper as an instrument to point his speech 
with, Mr. Guppy proceeds. 

" Your ladyship, there is a mystery about Miss Esther Summer- 
son's birth and bringing up. I am informed of that fact, because 
— which I mention in confidence — I know it in the way of my 
profession at Kenge and Carboy's. Now, as I have already men- 
tioned to your ladyship, Miss Summerson's image is imprinted on 
my 'art. If I could clear this mystery for her, or prove her to be 
well related, or find that having the honour to be a remote branch 
of your ladyship's family she had a right to be made a party in 
Jarndyce and Jarndyce, why, I might make a sort of a claim upon 
Miss Summerson to look with an eye of more decided favour on 
my proposals than she has exactly done as yet. In fact, as yet she 
hasn't favoured them at all." 

A kind of angry smile just dawns upon my Lady's face. 

" Now, it's a very singular circumstance, your ladyship," says 
Mr. Guppy, "though one of those circumstances that do fall in 
the way of us professional men — which I may call myself, for 
though not admitted yet I have had a present of my articles made 
to me by Kenge and Carboy, on my mother's advancing from the 
principal of her little income the money for the stamp, which comes 
heavy — that I have encountered the person, who lived as servant 



BLEAK HOUSE. 379 

with the lady who brought Miss Summerson up, before Mr. Jarn- 
dyce took charge of her. That lady was a Miss Barbaiy, your 
ladyship." 

Is the dead colour on my Lady's face, reflected from the screen, 
which has a green silk ground, and which she holds in her raised 
hand as if she had forgotten it ; or is it a dreadful paleness that 
has fallen on her ? 

•' Did your ladyship," says Mr. Guppy, "ever happen to hear of 
Miss Barbary 1 " 

" I don't know. I think so. Yes." 

"Was Miss Barbaiy at all connected with your ladyship's 
family ? " 

My lady's hps move, but they utter nothing. She shakes her 
head. 

" J^ot connected ? " says Mr. Gupi^y. " ! Not to your lady- 
ship's knowledge, perhaps ? Ah ! But might be ? Yes." After 
each of these interrogatories, she has inclined her head. "Very 
good ! Now, this Miss Barbary was extremely close — seems to 
have been extraordinarily close for a female, females being generally 
(in common life at least) rather given to conversation — and my 
witness never had an idea whether she possessed a single relative. 
On one occasion, and only one, she seems to have been confidential 
to my witness, on a single point ; and she then told her that the 
little girl's real name was not Esther Summerson, but Esther 
Hawdon." 

"My God!" 

Mr. Guppy stares. Lady Dedlock sits before him, looking him 
through, with the same dark shade upon her face, in the same atti- 
tude even to the holding of the screen, with her lips a little apart, 
her brow a little contracted, but, for the moment, dead. He sees 
her consciousness return, sees a tremor pass across her frame like 
a ripple over water, sees her lips shake, sees her compose them by 
a great effort, sees her force herself back to the knowledge of his 
presence, and of what he has said. All this, so quickly, that her 
exclamation and her dead condition seem to have passed away like 
the features of those long-preserved dead bodies sometimes opened 
up in tombs, which, struck by the air like lightning, vanish in a 
breath. 
' " Your ladyship is acquainted with the name of Hawdon ? " 
■ "I have heard it before." 

"Name of any collateral, or remote, branch of your ladyship's 
family 1 " 

" No." 

"Now, your ladyship," says Mr. Guppy, "I come to the last 



380 BLEAK HOUSE. 

point of the case, so far as I have got it up. It's going on, and I 
shall gather it up closer and closer as it goes on. Your ladyship 
must know — if your ladyshij) don't happen, by any chance, to 
know already — that there was found dead at the house of a per- 
son named Krook, near Chancery Lane, some time ago, a law- 
writer in great distress. Upon which law-writer, there was an 
inquest; and which law-writer was an anonymous character, his 
name being unknown. But, your ladyship, I have discovered, very 
lately, that that law-writer's name was Hawdon." 

" And what is that to me ? " 

" Aye, your ladyship, that's the question ! Now, your ladyship, 
a queer thing happened after that man's death. A lady started 
up; a disguised lady, your ladyship, who went to look at the 
scene of action, and went to look at his grave. She hired a cross- 
ing-sweeping boy to show it her. If your ladyship would wish to 
have the boy produced in corroboration of this statement, I can 
lay my hand upon him at any time." 

The wretched boy is nothing to my Lady, and she does not wish 
to have him produced. 

"Oh, I assure your ladyship it's a veiy queer start indeed," 
says Mr. Guppy. " If you was to hear him tell about the rings 
that sparkled on her fingers when she took her glove off, you'd 
think it quite romantic." 

There are diamonds glittering on the hand that holds the 
screen. My Lady trifles with the screen, and makes them glitter 
more ; again with that expression which in other times might have 
been so dangerous to the young man of the name of Guppy. 

" It was supposed, your ladyship, that he left no rag or scrap 
behind him by which he could possibly be identified. But he did. 
He left a bundle of old letters." 

The screen still goes, as before. All this time, her eyes never 
once release him. 

"They were taken and secreted. And to-morrow night, your 
ladyship, they will come into my possession." 

" Still I ask you, what is this to me 1 " 

"Your ladyship, I conclude with that." Mr. Guppy rises. 
" If you think there's enough, in this chain of circumstances put 
together — in the undoubted strong likeness of this young lady to 
your ladyship, which is a positive fact for a jury — in her having 
been brought up by Miss Barbary — in Miss Barbary stating Miss 
Summerson's real name to be Hawdon — in your ladyship's know- 
ing both those names very well — and in Hawdon's dying as he 
did — to give your ladyship a family interest in going further into 
the case, I will bring those papers here. I don't know what they 



BLEAK HOUSE. 381 

are, except that they are old letters : I have never had them in 
my possession yet. I will bring those papers here, as soon as I 
get them ; and go over them for the first time with your ladyship. 
I have told your ladyship my object. I have told your ladyship 
that I should be placed in a very disagreeable situation, if any 
complaint was made ; and all is in strict confidence." 

Is this the full purpose of the young man of the name of Guppy, 
or has he any other 1 Do his words disclose the length, breadth, 
depth, of his object and suspicion in coming here ; or, if not, what 
do they hide 1 He is a match for my Lady there. She may look 
at him, but he can look at the table, and keep that witness-box 
face of his from telling anything. 

"You may bring the letters," says my Lady, "if you choose." 

" Your ladyship is not very encouraging, upon my word and 
honour," says Mr. Guppy, a little injured. 

" You may bring the letters," she repeats, in the same tone, 
" if you please." 

"It shall be done. I wish your ladyship good day." 

On a table near her is a rich bauble of a casket, barred and 
clasped like an old strong chest. She, looking at him still, takes 
it to her and unlocks it. 

" Oh ! I assure your ladyship I am not actuated by any mo- 
tives of that sort," says Mr. Guppy ; " and I couldn't accept of any- 
thing of the kind. I wish your ladyship good day, and am much 
obliged to you all the same." 

So the young man makes his bow, and goes down-stairs ; where 
the supercilious Mercury does not consider himself called upon to 
leave his Olympus by the hall-fire, to let the young man out. 

As Sir Leicester basks in his library, and dozes over his news- 
paper, is there no influence in the house to startle him ; not to say, 
to make the very trees at Chesney Wold fling up their knotted 
arms, the very portraits frown, the very armour stir ? 

No. Words, sobs, and cries, are but air ; and air is so shut in 
and shut out throughout the house in town, that sounds need be 
uttered trumpet-tongued indeed by my Lady in her chamber, to 
carry any faint vibration to Sir Leicester's ears ; and yet this ciy 
is in the house, going upward from a -wild figure on its knees. 

" my child, my child ! Not dead in the first hours of her life, 
as my cruel sister told me ; but sternly nurtured by her, after she 
had renounced me and my name ! O my child, my child ! " 



382 BLEAK HOUSE. 

CHAPTER XXX. 

Esther's narrative. 

Richard had been gone away some time, when a visitor came 
to pass a few days with us. It was an elderly lady. It was Mrs. 
Woodcourt, who, having come from Wales to stay with Mrs. Bay- 
ham Badger, and having written to my Guardian, "by her son 
Allan's desire," to report that she had heard from him and that he 
was well, "and sent his kind remembrances to all of us," had been 
invited by my Guardian to make a visit to Bleak House. She 
stayed with us nearly three weeks. She took very kindly to me, 
and was extremely confidential : so much so that sometimes she 
almost made me uncomfortable. I had no right, I knew very 
well, to be uncomfortable because she confided in me, and I 
felt it was unreasonable; still, with all I could do, I could not 
quite help it. 

She was such a sharp little lady, and used to sit with her hands 
folded in each other, looking so very watchful while she talked to 
me, that perhaps I found that rather irksome. Or perhaps it 
was her being so upright and trim ; though I don't think it was 
that, because I thought that quaintly pleasant. Nor can it have 
been the general expression of her face, which was very sparkling 
and pretty for an old lady. I don't know what it was. Or at 
least if I do, now, I thought I did not then. Or at least — but it 
don't matter. 

Of a night when I was going up-stairs to bed, she would invite 
me into her room, where she sat before the fire in a great chair ; 
and, dear me, she would tell me about Morgan ap Kerrig until I 
was quite low-spirited ! Sometimes she recited a few verses from 
Crumlinwallinwer and the Mewlinwillinwodd (if those are the right > 
names, which I dare say they are not), and would become quite 
fiery with the sentiments they expressed. Though I never knew 
what they were (being in Welsh), further than that they were 
highly eulogistic of the lineage of Morgan ap Kerrig. 

" So, Miss Summerson," she would say to me with stately 
triumph, " this, you see, is the fortune inherited by my son. 
Wherever my son goes, he can claim kindred with Ap Kerrig. He 
may not have money, but he always has what is much better — 
family, my dear." 

I had my doubts of their caring so very much for Morgan ap 
Kerrig, in India and China ; but of course I never expressed them. 
I used to say it was a great thing to be so highly connected. 

" It is, my dear, a gi'eat thing," Mrs. Woodcourt would reply. 



BLEAK HOUSE. 383 

" It has its disadvantages ; my son's choice of a wife, for instance, 
is limited by it ; but the matrimonial choice of the Royal family is 
limited, in much the same manner." 

Then she would pat me on the arm and smooth my dress, as 
much as to assure me that she had a good opinion of me, the dis- 
tance between us notwithstanding. 

"Poor Mr. Woodcourt, my dear," she would say, and always 
with some emotion, for with her lofty pedigree she had a very 
affectionate heart, " was descended from a great Highland family, 
the Mac Coorts of Mac Coort. He served his king and country as 
an officer in the Royal Highlanders, and he died on the field. My 
son is one of the last representatives of two old families. With 
the blessing of Heaven he will set them up again, and unite them 
with another old family." 

It was in vain for me to try to change the subject, as I used to 
try — only for the sake of novelty — or perhaps because — but I 
need not be so particular. Mrs. Woodcourt never would let me 
change it. 

"My dear," she said one night, "you have so much sense, and 
you look at the world in a quiet manner so superior to your time 
of life, that it is a comfort to me to talk to you about these family 
matters of mine. You don't know much of my son, my dear ; but 
you know enough of him, I dare say, to recollect him 1 " 

" Yes, ma'am. I recollect him." 

"Yes, my dear. Now, my dear, I think you are a judge of 
character, and I should like to have your opinion of him ? " 

" 0, Mrs. Woodcourt ! " said I, "that is so difficult." 

"Why is it so difficult, my dear?" she returned. "I don't see 
it myself." 

" To give an opinion " 

"On so slight an acquaintance, my dear. Thafs true." 

I didn't mean that ; because Mr. Woodcourt had been at our 
house a good deal altogether, and had become quite intimate with 
my Guardian. I said so, and added that he seemed to be very 
clever in his profession — we thought — and that his kindness and 
gentleness to Miss Flite were above all praise. 

" You do him justice ! " said Mrs. Woodcourt, pressing my 
hand. " You define him exactly. Allan is a dear fellow, and in 
his profession fiudtless. I say it, though I am his mother. Still, 
I must confess he is not without faults, love." 

"None of us are," said I. 

"Ah! But his really are faults that he might correct, and 
mght to correct," returned the sharp old lady, sharply shaking her 
lead. " I am so much attached to you, that I may confide in 



384 BLEAK HOUSE. 

you, my dear, as a third party wholly disinterested, that he is 
fickleness itself." 

I said, I should have thought it hardly possible that he could 
have been otherwise than constant to his profession, and zealous in 
the pursuit of it, judging from the reputation he had earned. 

"You are right again, my dear," the old lady retorted; "but I 
don't refer to his profession, look you." 

" ! " said I. 

" No," said she. " I refer, my dear, to his social conduct. He 
is always paying trivial attentions to young ladies, and always has 
been, ever since he was eighteen. Now, my dear, he has never 
really cared for any one of them, and has never meant in doing this 
to do any harm, or to express anything but politeness and good 
nature. Still, it's not right, you know ; is it ? " 

" No," said I, as she seemed to wait for me. 

" And it might lead to mistaken notions, you see, my dear," 

I supposed it might. 

" Therefore I have told him, many times, that he really should 
be more careful, both in justice to himself and in justice to others. 
And he has always said, ' Mother, I will be ; but you know me 
better than anybody else does, and you know I mean no harm — • 
in short, mean nothing.' All of which is very true, my dear, but 
is no justification. However, as he is now gone so far away, and, 
for an indefinite time, and as he will have good opportunities and| 
introductions, we may consider this past and gone. And you, myj 
dear," said the old lady, who was now all nods and smiles;! 
" regarding your dear self, my love 1 " 1 

" Me, Mrs. Woodcourt ? " ' 

"Not to be always selfish, talking of my son, who has gone to 
seek his fortune, and to find a wife — when do you mean to seek 
your fortune and to find a husband. Miss Summerson 1 Hey, look 
you ! Now you blush ! " 

I don't think I did blush — at aU events, it was not important 

if I did and I said, my present fortune perfectly contented me, 

and I had no wish to change it. 

" Shall I tell you what I always think of you, and the fortune 
yet to come for you, my love 1 " said Mrs. Woodcourt. 

" If you believe you are a good prophet," said I. 

" Why, then, it is that you will marry some one, very rich and 
very worthy, much older — five-and-twenty years, perhaps — than 
yourself And you will be an excellent wife, and much beloved, and 

very happy." . ,„ 

" That is a good fortune," said I. " But why is it to be mine i 
" My dear," she returned, " there's suitability in it — you are so 



BLEAK HOUSE. 385 

busy, and so neat, and so peculiarly situated altogether, that there's 
suitability in it, and it will come to pass. And nobody, my love, 
will congratulate you more sincerely on such a marriage than I 
shall." 

It was curious that this should make me uncomfortable, but I 
think it did. I know it did. It made me for some part of that 
night quite uncomfortable. I was so ashamed of my folly, that I 
did not like to confess it even to Ada ; and that made me more un- 
comfortable still. I would have given anything not to have been 
so much in the bright old lady's confidence, if I could have possibly 
declined it. It gave me the most inconsistent opinions of her. 
At one time I thought she was a story-teller, and at another time 
that she was the pink of truth. Now, I suspected that she was 
very cunning ; next moment, I believed her honest Welsh heart to 
be perfectly innocent and simple. And, after all, what did it 
matter to me, and why did it matter to me ? Why could not I, 
going up to bed with my basket of keys, stop to sit down by her 
fire, and accommodate myself for a little while to her, at least as 
well as to anybody else ; and not trouble myself about the harm- 
less things she said to me 1 Impelled towards her, as I certainly 
was, for I was very anxious that she should like me, and was very 
glad indeed that she did, why should I harp afterwards, with 
actual distress and pain, on every word she said, and weigh it over 
and over again in twenty scales 1 Why was it so worrying to me 
to have her in our house, and confidential to me every night, when 
I yet felt that it was better and safer, somehow, that she should 
be there than anywhere else ? These were perplexities and contra- 
dictions that I could not account for. At least, if I could — but 
I shall come to all that by-and-bye, and it is mere idleness to go on 
about it now. 

So, when Mrs. Woodcourt went away, I was sorry to lose her, 
but was relieved too. And then Caddy Jellyby came down ; and 
Caddy brought such a packet of domestic news, that it gave us 
abundant occupation. 

First, Caddy declared (and would at first declare nothing else) 
that I was the best adviser that ever was known. This, my pet 
said, was no news at all ; and this, / said, of course, was nonsense. 
Then Caddy told us that she was going to be married in a month ; 
and that if Ada and I would be her bridesmaids, she was the hap- 
piest girl in the world. To be sure, this was news indeed ; and I 
thought we never should have done talking about it, we had so 
much to say to Caddy, and Caddy had so much to say to us. 

It seemed that Caddy's unfortunate papa had got over his bank- 
nip tcy — "gone through the Gazette," was the expression Caddy 

2c 



886 BLEAK HOUSE. 

used, as if it were a tunnel, — with the general clemency and com- 
miseration of his creditors ; and had got rid of his affairs in some 
blessed manner, without succeeding in understanding them ; and 
had given up everything he possessed (which was not worth much, 
I should think, to judge from the state of the furniture), and had 
satisfied every one concerned that he could do no more, poor man. 
So, he had been honourably dismissed to "the office," to begin 
the world again. What he did at the office, I never knew : Caddy 
said he was a " Custom-House and General Agent," and the only 
thing I ever understood about that business was, that when he 
wanted money more than usual he went to the Docks to look for 
it, and hardly ever found it. 

As soon as her papa had tranquillised his mind by becoming this 
shorn lamb, and they had removed to a furnished lodging in Hatton 
Garden (where I found the children, when I afterwards went there, 
cutting the horsehair out of the seats of the chairs, and choking 
themselves with it), Caddy had brought about a meeting between 
him and old Mr. Turveydrop ; and poor Mr. Jellyby, being very 
humble and meek, had deferred to Mr. Turveydrop's Deportment 
so submissively, that they had become excellent friends. By de- 
grees, old Mr. Turveydrop, thus familiarised with the idea of his 
son's marriage, had worked up his parental feelings to the height 
of contemplating that event as being near at hand ; and had given 
his gracious consent to the young couple commencing housekeeping, 
at the Academy in Newman Street, when they would. 

"And your papa, Caddy. What did he say?" 

" ! poor Pa," said Caddy, "only cried, and said he hoped we 
might get on better than he and Ma had got on. He didn't Say 
so before Prince, he only said so to me. And he said, ' My poor 
girl, you have not been very well tauglit how to make a home for 
your husband ; but unless you mean with all your heart to strive 
to do it, you had better murder him than marry him — if you 
really love him.' " 

" And how did you reassure him, Caddy ? " 

"Why, it was very distressing, you know, to see poor Pa so 
low, and hear him say such terrible things, and I couldn't help 
crying myself. But I told him that I did mean it, with all my 
heart ; and that I hoped our house would be a place for him to 
come and find some comfort in, of an evening ; and that I hoped 
and thought I could be a better daughter to him there, than at 
home. Then I mentioned Peepy's coming to stay with me ; and 
then Pa began to cry again, and said the children were Indians." 

"Indians, Caddy?" 

"Yes," said Caddy, "Wild Indians. And Pa said," — (here 



BLEAK HOUSE. 887 

she began to sob, poor girl, not at all like the happiest girl in the 
world) — " that he was sensible the best thing that could happen 
to them was, their being all Tomahawked together." 

Ada suggested that it was comfortable to know that Mr. Jel- 
lyby did not mean these destructive sentiments. 

" No, of course I know Pa wouldn't like his family to be wel- 
tering in their blood," said Caddy ; "but he means that they are 
very unfortunate in being Ma's children, and that he is very un- 
fortunate in being Ma's husband ; and I am sure that's true, though 
it seems unnatural to say so." 

I asked Caddy if Mrs. Jellyby knew that her wedding-day was 
fixed. 

"0 ! you know what Ma is, Esther," she returned. "It's im- 
possible to say whether she knows it or not. She has been told it 
often enough ; and when she is told it, she only gives me a placid 
look, as if I was I don't know what — a steeple in the distance," 
said Caddy, with a sudden idea; "and then she shakes her head, 
and says ' Caddy, Caddy, what a tease you are ! ' and goes on 
with the Borrioboola letters." 

"And about your wardrobe, Caddy?" said I. For she was 
under no restraint with us. 

" Well, my dear Esther," she returned, drying her eyes, " I must 
do the best I can, and trust to my dear Prince never to have an un- 
kind remembrance of my coming so shabbily to him. If the ques- 
tion concerned an outfit for Borrioboola, Ma would know all about 
it, and would be quite excited. Being what it is, she neither knows 
nor cares." 

Caddy was not at all deficient in natural affection for her mother, 
but mentioned this with tears, as an undeniable fact : which I am 
afraid it was. We were so sorry for the poor dear girl, and found 
so much to admire in the good disposition which had survived under 
such discouragement, that we both at once (I mean Ada and I) 
proposed a little scheme, that made her perfectly joyful. This was, 
her staying with us for three weeks ; my staying with her for one ; 
and our all three contriving and cutting out, and repairing, and 
sewing, and saving, and doing the very best we could think of, to 
make the most of her stock. My Guardian being as pleased with the 
idea as Caddy was, we took her home next day to arrange the 
matter ; and brought her out again in triumph, with her boxes, and 
all the purchases that could be squeezed out of a ten-pound note, 
which Mr. Jellyby had found in the Docks I suppose, but which he 
at all events gave her. What my Guardian would not have given 
her, if we had encouraged him, it would be difficult to say ; but we 
thought it right to compound for no more than her wedding-dress 



888 BLEAK HOUSE. 

and bonnet. He agreed to this compromise ; and if Caddy had ever 
been happy in her life, she was happy when we sat down to work. 

She was clumsy enough with her needle, poor girl, and pricked her 
fingers as much as she had been used to ink them. She could not 
help reddening a little, now and then : partly with the smart, and 
partly with vexation at being able to do no better : but she soon got 
over that, and began to improve rapidly. So, day after day, she, 
and my darling, and my little maid Charley, and a milliner out of 
the town, and I, sat hard at work, as pleasantly as possible. 

Over and above this, Caddy was very anxious " to learn house- 
keeping," as she said. Now, Mercy upon us ! the idea of her learn- 
ing housekeeping of a person of my vast experience was such a joke, 
that I laughed, and coloured up, and fell into a comical confusion 
when she proposed it. However, I said, " Caddy, I am sure you are 
very welcome to learn anything that you can learn of 7ne, my dear ; " 
and I showed her all my books and methods, and all my fidgety 
ways. You would have supposed that I was showing her some won- 
derful inventions, by her study of them ; and if you had seen her, 
whenever I jingled my housekeeping keys, get up and attend me, 
certainly you might have thought that there never was a greater 
impostor than I, with a blinder follower than Caddy Jellyby. 

So, what with working and housekeeping, and lessons to Charley, 
and backgammon in the evening with my Guardian, and duets with 
Ada, the three weeks slipped fast away. Then I went home with 
Caddy, to see what could be done there ; and Ada and Charley 
remained behind, to take care of my Guardian. 

When I say I went home with Caddy, I mean to the furnished 
lodging in Hatton Garden. We went to Newman Street two or 
three times, where preparations were in progress too ; a good many, 
I observed, for enhancing the comforts of old Mr. Turveydrop, and 
a few for putting the newly married couple away cheaply at the top 
of the house ; but our great point was to make the furnished lodging 
decent for the wedding breakfast, and to imbue Mrs. Jellyby before- 
hand with some faint sense of the occasion. 

The latter was the more difficult thing of the two, because Mrs. 
Jellyby and an unwholesome boy occupied the front sitting-room (the 
back one was a mere closet), and it was littered down -wdth waste 
paper and Borrioboolan documents, as an untidy stable might be 
littered with straw. Mrs. Jellyby sat there all day, drinking strong 
coffee, dictating, and holding Borrioboolan interviews by appoint- 
ment. The unwholesome boy, who seemed to me to be going into a 
decline, took his meals out of the house. When Mr. Jellyby came 
home he usually groaned and went down into the kitchen. There 
he got something to eat, if the servant would give him anything; and 



BLEAK HOUSE. 389 

then, feeling that he was in the way, went out and walked about 
Hatton Garden in the wet. The jDoor children scrambled up and 
tumbled down the house, as they had always been accustomed to do. 

The production of these devoted little sacrifices, in any present- 
able condition, being quite out of the question at a week's notice, I 
proposed to Caddy that we should make them as happy as we could, 
on her marriage morning, in the attic where they all slept; and 
should confine our greatest eftbrts to her mama and her mama's room, 
and a clean breakfast. In truth Mrs. Jellyby required a good deal 
of attention, the lattice- work up her back having widened consider- 
ably since I fii'st knew her, and her hair looking like the mane of a 
dustman's horse. 

Thinking that the display of Caddy's wardrobe would be the 
best means of approaching the subject, I invited Mrs. Jellyby to 
come and look at it spread out on Caddy's bed, in the evening after 
the unwholesome boy was gone. 

"My dear Miss Summerson," said she, rising from her desk, 
with her usual sweetness of temper, " these are really ridiculous 
preparations, though your assisting them is a proof of your kind- 
ness. Tliere is something so inexpressibly absurd to me, in the 
idea of Caddy being married ! Caddy, you silly, silly, silly 
puss ! " 

She came up-stairs with us notwithstanding, and looked at the 
clothes in her customary far-off" manner. They suggested one dis- 
tinct idea to her ; for she said, with her placid smile, and shaking 
her head, *' My good Miss Summerson, at half the cost, this weak 
child might have been equipped for Africa ! " 

On our going down-stairs again, Mrs. Jellyby asked me whether 
this troublesome business was really to take place next Wednesday ? 
And on my replying yes, she said, " Will my room be required, my 
dear Miss Summerson ? For it's quite impossible that I can put 
my papers away." 

I took the liberty of saying that the room would certainly be 
wanted, and that I thought we must put the papers away some- 
where. " Well, my dear Miss Summerson," said Mrs. Jellyby, "you 
know best, I dare say. But by obliging me to employ a boy, Caddy 
has embarrassed me to that extent, overwhelmed as I am with pub- 
lic business, that I don't know which way to turn. We have a 
Ramification meeting, too, on Wednesday afternoon, and the incon- 
venience is very serious." 

"It is not likely to occur again," said I, smiling. "Caddy will 
be married but once, probably." 

" That's true," Mrs. Jellyby replied, " that's true, my dear. I 
suppose we must make the best of it ! " 



390 BLEAK HOUSE. 

The next question was, how Mrs. Jelly by should be dressed on the 
occasion. I thought it veiy curious to see her looking on serenely 
from her writing-table, while Caddy and I discussed it ; occasionally 
shaking her head at us with a half-reproachful smile, like a superior 
spirit who could just bear with our trifling. 

The state in which her dresses were, and the extraordinary con- 
fusion in which she kept them, added not a little to our difficulty ; 
but at length we devised something not very unlike what a common- 
place mother might wear on such an occasion. The abstracted 
manner in which Mrs. Jellyby would deliver herself up to having 
this attire tried on by the dressmaker, and the sweetness with which 
she would then observe to me how soriy she was that I had not 
turned my thoughts to Africa, were consistent with the rest of her 
behaviour. 

The lodging was rather confined as to space, but I fancied that if 
Mrs. Jellyby's household had been the only lodgers in Saint Paul's 
or Saint Peter's, the sole advantage they would have found in the 
size of the building would have been its affording a great deal of 
room to be dirty in. I believe that nothing belonging to the family, 
which it had been possible to break, was unbroken at the time of 
those preparations for Caddy's marriage ; that nothing which it had 
been possible to spoil in any way, was unspoilt ; and that no domes- 
tic object which was capable of collecting dirt, from a dear child's 
knee to the door-plate, was without as much dirt as could well accu- 
mulate upon it. 

Poor Mr. Jellyby, who very seldom spoke, and almost always sat 
when he was at home with his head against the wall, became inter- 
ested when he saw that Caddy and I were attempting to establish 
some order among all this waste and ruin, and took oft' his coat to 
help. But such wonderful things came tumbling out of the closets 
when they were opened — bits of mouldy pie, sour bottles, Mrs. 
Jellyby's caps, letters, tea, forks, odd boots and shoes of children, 
firewood, wafers, saucepan-lids, damp sugar in odds and ends of 
paper bags, footstools, black-lead brushes, bread, Mrs. Jellyby's ; 
bonnets, books with butter sticking to the binding, guttered candle- 
ends put out by being turned upside down in broken candlesticks, 
nutshells, heads and tails of shrimps, dinner-mats, gloves, coffee- 
grounds, umbrellas — that he looked frightened, and left off" again. 
But he came in regularly every evening, and sat without his coat, 
with his head against the wall ; as though he would have helped us, 
if he had known how. 

" Poor Pa ! " said Caddy to me, on the night before the great day, 
when we really had got things a little to rights. " It seems unkind 
to leave him, Esther. But what could I do, if I stayed ! Since I 



BLEAK HOUSE. 391 

first knew you, I have tidied and tidied over and over again ; but 
it's useless. Ma and Africa, together, upset the whole house 
directly. "We never have a servant who don't drink. Ma's ruinous 
to everything." 

Mr. Jellyby could not hear what she said, but he seemed very low 
indeed, and shed tears, I thought. 

" My heart aches for him ; that it does ! " sobbed Caddy. " I can't 
help thinking, to-night, Esther, how dearly I hope to be happy with 
Prince, and how dearly Pa hoped, I dare say, to be happy with Ma. 
What a disappointed life ! " 

" My dear Caddy ! " said Mr. Jellyby, looking slowly round from 
the wall. It was the first time, I think, I ever heard him say three 
words together. 

" Yes, Pa ! " cried Caddy, going to him and embracing him affec- 
tionately. 

" My dear Caddy," said Mr. Jellyby. " Never have " 

" Not Prince, Pa 1 " faltered Caddy. " Not have Prince 1 " 

" Yes, my dear," said Mr. Jellyby. " Have him, certainly. 
But, never have " 

I mentioned, in my account of our first visit in Thavies Inn, that 
Richard described Mr. Jellyby as frequently opening his mouth 
after dinner without saying anything. It was a habit of his. He 
opened his mouth now, a great many times, and shook his head in 
a melancholy manner. 

" What do you wish me not to have ? Don't have what, dear 
Pa 1 " asked Caddy, coaxing him, with her arms round his neck. 

" Never have a Mission, my dear child." 

Mr. Jellyby groaned, and laid his head against the wall again ; 
and this was the only time I ever heard him make any approach to 
expressing his sentiments on the Borrioboolan question. I suppose 
he had been more talkative and lively, once ; but he seemed to have 
been completely exhausted long before I knew him. 

I thought Mrs. Jellyby never would have left off" serenely looking 
over her papers, and drinking coffee, that night. It was twelve 
o'clock before we could obtain possession of the room ; and the 
clearance it required then, was so discouraging, that Caddy, who 
was almost tired out, sat down in the middle of the dust, and cried. 
But she soon cheered up, and we did wonders with it before we 
went to bed. 

In the morning it looked, by the aid of a few flowers and a 
quantity of soap and water, and a little arrangement, quite gay. 
The plain breakfast made a cheerful show, and Caddy was perfectly 
charming. But when my darling came, I thought — and I think 
now — that I never had seen such a dear face as my beautiful pet's. 



392 BLEAK HOUSE. 

We made a little feast for the children up-stairs, and we put 
Peepy at the head of the table, and we showed them Caddy in her 
bridal dress, and they clapped their hands and hurrahed, and Caddy 
cried to think that she was going away from them, and hugged them 
over and over again, until we brought Prince up to fetch her 
away — when, I am sorry to say, Peepy bit him. Then there was 
old Mr. Turveydrop down-stairs, in a state of Deportment not to 
be expressed, benignly blessing Caddy, and giving my Guardian to 
understand, that his son's happiness was his own parental work, 
and that he sacrificed personal considerations to ensure it. "My 
dear sir," said Mr. Turveydrop, " these young people will live with 
me ; my house is large enough for their accommodation, and they 
shall not want the shelter of my roof I could have wished — you 
will understand the allusion, Mr. Jarndyce, for you remember my 
illustrious patron the Prince Regent — I could have wished that my 
son had married into a family where there was more Deportment ; 
but the will of Heaven be done ! " 

Mr. and Mrs. Pardiggle were of the party — Mr. Pardiggle, an 
obstinate-looking man with a large waistcoat and stubbly hair, who 
was always talking in a loud bass voice about his mite, or Mrs. Par- 
diggle's mite, or their five boys' mites. Mr. Quale, with his hair 
brushed back as usual, and his knobs of temples shining very much, 
was also there ; not in the character of a disappointed lover, but as 
the Accepted of a young — at least, an unmarried — lady, a Miss 
Wisk, who was also there. Miss Wisk's mission, my Guardian said, 
was to show the world that woman's mission was man's mission ; i 
and that the only genuine mission, of both man and woman, was to • 
be always moving declaratory resolutions about things in general at 
public meetings. The guests were few ; but were, as one might 
expect at Mrs. Jellyby's, all devoted to public objects only. Be- 
sides those I have mentioned, there was an extremely dirty lady, 
with her bonnet all awry, and the ticketed price of her dress still 
sticking on it, whose neglected home, Caddy told me, was like a 
filthy wilderness, but whose church was like a fancy fair. A very 
contentious gentleman, who said it was his mission to be every- 
body's brother, but who appeared to be on terms of coolness with 
the whole of his large family, completed the party. 

A party, having less in common with such an occasion, could 
hardly have been got together by any ingenuity. Such a mean 
mission as the domestic mission, was the veiy last thing to be 
endured among them ; indeed, Miss Wisk informed us, with great 
indignation, before we sat down to breakfast, that the idea of 
woman's mission lying chiefly in the nan'ow sphere of Home was 
an outrageous slander on the part of her Tyrant, Man. One other 



BLEAK HOUSE. 393 

singularity was, that nobody with a mission — except Mr. Quale, 
whose mission, as I think I have formerly said, was to be in ecsta- 
sies with everybody's mission — cared at all for anybody's mission. 
Mrs. Pardiggle being as clear that the only one infallible course 
was her course of pouncing upon the poor, and applying benevo- 
lence to them like a strait-waistcoat ; as Miss Wisk was that the 
only practical thing for the world was the emancipation of Woman 
from the thraldom of her Tyrant, Man. Mrs. Jellyby, all the 
while, sat smiling at the limited vision that could see anything but 
Borrioboola-Gha. 

But I am anticipating now the purport of our conversation on 
the ride home, instead of first mariying Caddy. We all went to 
church, and Mr. Jellyby gave her away. Of the air with which old 
Mr. Turveydrop, with his hat under his left arm, (the inside pre- 
sented at the clergyman like a cannon,) and his eyes creasing them- 
selves up into his wig, stood, stiff and high-shouldered, behind us 
bridesmaids during the ceremony, and afterwards saluted us, I 
could never say enough to do it justice. Miss Wisk, whom I can- 
not report as prepossessing in appearance, and whose manner was 
gi'im, listened to the proceedings, as part of Woman's wrongs, with 
a disdainful face. Mrs. Jellyby, with her calm smile and her 
bright eyes, looked the least concerned of all the company. 

We duly came back to breakfast, and Mrs. Jellyby sat at the head 
of the table, and Mr. Jellyby at the foot. Caddy had previously 
stolen up-stairs, to hug the children again, and tell them that her 
name was Turveydrop. But this piece of information, instead of 
being an agreeable surprise to Peepy, threw him on his back in 
such transports of kicking grief, that I could do nothing on being 
sent for, but accede to the proposal that he should be admitted to 
the breakfast table. So he came down, and sat in my lap ; and 
Mrs. Jellyby, after saying, in reference to the state of his pinafore, 
" you naughty Peepy, what a shocking little pig you are ! " 
was not at all discomposed. He was very good, except that he 
brought down Noah with him (out of an ark I had given him 
before we went to church), and would dip him head first into the 
wine-glasses, and then put him in his mouth. 

My Guardian, with his sweet temper and his quick perception 
and his amiable face, made something agreeable even out of the 
ungenial company. None of them seemed able to talk about 
anything but his, or her, own one subject, and none of them 
seemed able to talk about even that, as part of a world in which 
there was anything else; but my Guardian turned it all to the 
meiTy encouragement of Caddy, and the honour of the occasion, and 
brought us through the breakfast nobly. What we should have 



394 BLEAK HOUSE. 

done without him, I am afraid to think ; for, all the company 
despising the bride and bridegroom, and old Mr. Turveydrop — and 
old Mr. Turveydrop, in virtue of his Deportment, considering him- 
self vastly superior to all the company — it was a very unprom- 
ising case. 

At last the time came when poor Caddy was to go, and when 
all her property was packed on the hired coach and pair that was 
to take her and her husband to Graveseud. It affected us to see 
Caddy clinging, then, to her deplorable home, and hanging on her 
mother's neck with the greatest tenderness. 

"I am very sorry I couldn't go on writing from dictation, Ma," 
sobbed Caddy. "I hope you forgive me, now?" 

"0 Caddy, Caddy!" said Mrs. Jelly by, "I have told you over 
and over again that I have engaged a boy, and there's an end of it." 

" You are sure you are not in the least angry with me, Ma ? 
Say you are sure, before I go away. Ma ? " 

" You foolish Caddy," returned Mrs. Jellyby, " do I look angry, 
or have I inclination to be angry, or time to be angry ? How can 
you 1 " 

" Take a little care of Pa while I am gone, mama ! " 

Mrs. Jellyby positively laughed at the fancy. " You romantic 
child," said she, lightly patting Caddy's back. " Go along. I am 
excellent friends with you. Now, good bye, Caddy, and be very 
happy ! " 

Then Caddy hung upon her father, and nursed his cheek against 
hers as if he were some poor dull child in pain. All this took 
place in the hall. Her father released her, took out his pocket- 
handkerchief, and sat down on the stairs with his head against the 
wall. I hope he found some consolation in walls. I almost think 
he did. 

And then Prince took her arm in his, and turned with great 
emotion and respect to his father, whose Deportment at that 
moment was overwhelming. 

" Thank you over and over again, father ! " said Prince, kissing 
his hand. " I am very grateful for all your kindness and considera- 
tion regarding our marriage, and so, I can assure you, is Caddy." 

" Very," sobbed Caddy. " Ve-ry ! " 

" My dear son," said Mr. Turveydrop, " and dear daughter, I 
have done my duty. If the spirit of a sainted Wooman hovers 
above iis, and looks down on the occasion, that, and your constant 
affection, will be my recompense. You will not faU in ^our duty, 
my son and daughter, I believe ? " 

" Dear father, never ! " cried Prince. 

" Never, never, dear Mr. Turveydrop ! " said Caddy. 



BLEAK HOUSE. 395 

"This," returned Mr. Turveydrop, "is as it should be. My 
children, my home is yours, my heart is yours, my all is yours. I 
will never leave you ; nothing but Death shall part us. My dear 
son, you contemplate an absence of a week, I think ? " 

"A week, dear father. We shall return home this day week." 

"My dear child," said Mr. Turveydrop, "let me, even under 
the present exceptional circumstances, recommend strict punctuality. 
It is highly important to keep the connection together ; and schools, 
if at all neglected, are apt to take offence." 

" This day week, father, we shall be sure to be home to dinner." 

" G-ood ! " said Mr. Turveydrop. " You will find fires, my dear 
Caroline, in your own room, and dinner prepared in my apartment. 
Yes, yes, Prince ! " anticipating some self-denying objection on his 
son's part with a great air. " You and our Caroline will be strange 
in the upper part of the premises, and will, therefore, dine that day 
in my apartment. Now, bless ye ! " 

They drove away; and whether I wondered most at Mrs. Jellyby, 
or at Mr. Turveydrop, I did not know. Ada and my Guardian 
were in the same condition when we came to talk it over. But 
before we drove away, too, I received a most unexpected and elo- 
quent compliment from Mr. Jellyby. He came up to me in the 
hall, took both my hands, pressed them earnestly, and opened his 
mouth tmce. I was so sure of his meaning that I said, quite 
flurried, " You are very welcome, sir. Pray don't mention it ! " 

"I hope this marriage is for the best. Guardian?" said I, when 
we three were on our road home. 

" I hope it is, little woman. Patience. We shall see." 

" Is the wind in the East to-day 1" 1 ventured to ask him. 

He laughed heartily, and answered " No." 

"But it must have been this morning, I think," said I. 

He answered "No," again; and this time my dear girl confi- 
dently answered "No," too, and shook the lovely head which, with 
its blooming flowers against the golden hair, was like the very 
Spring. " Much i/07c know of East winds, my ugly darling," said 
I, kissing her in my admiration — I couldn't help it. 

Well ! It was only their love for me, I know very well, and it 
is a long time ago. I must write it, even if I rub it out again, 
because it gives me so much pleasure. They said there could be 
no East wind where Somebody was ; they said that wherever Dame 
Durden went, there was sunshine and summer air. 



396 BLEAK HOUSE. 

CHAPTER XXXI. 

NUESE AND PATIENT. 

I HAD not been at home again many days, when one evening I went 
up-stairs into my own room to take a peep over Charley's shoulder, 
and see how she was getting on with her copy-book. Writing was 
a trying business to Charley, who seemed to have no natural power 
over a pen, but in whose hand every pen appeared to become per- 
versely animated, and to go wrong and crooked, and to stop, and 
splash, and sidle into corners, like a saddle-donkey. It was very 
odd, to see what old letters Charley's young hand made ; they, 
so wrinkled, and shrivelled, and tottering ; it, so plump and round. 
Yet Charley was uncommonly expert at other things, and had as 
nimble little fingers as I ever watched. 

" Well, Charley," said I, looking over a copy of the letter O in 
which it was represented as square, triangular, pear-shaped, and 
collapsed in all kinds of ways, " we are improving. If we only 
get to make it round, we shall be perfect, Charley." 

Then I made one, and Charley made one, and the pen wouldn't 
join Charley's neatly, but twisted it up into a knot. 

"Never mind, Charley. We shall do it in time." 

Charley laid down her pen, the copy being finished ; opened and 
shut her cramped little hand ; looked gravely at the page, half in 
pride and half in doubt ; and got up, and dropped me a curtsey. 

" Thank you, miss. If you please, miss, did you know a poor 
person of the name of Jenny ? " 

" A brickmaker's wife, Charley? Yes." 

" She came and spoke to me when I was out a little while ago, 
and said you knew her, miss. She asked me if I wasn't the young 
lady's little maid — meaning you for the young lady, miss — and 
I said yes, miss." 

" I thought she had left this neighbourhood altogether, Charley." 

" So she had, miss, but she's come back again to where she used 
to live — she and Liz. Did you know another poor person of the 
name of Liz, miss ? " 

"I think I do, Charley, though not by name." 

" That's what she said ! " returned Charley. " They have both 
come back, miss, and have been tramping high and low." 

"Tramping high and low, have they, Charley?" 

"Yes, miss." If Charley could only have made the letters in 
her copy as round as the eyes with which she looked into my face, 
they would have been excellent. " And this poor person came 
about the house three or four days, hoping to get a glimpse of you, 



BLEAK HOUSE. 397 

miss — all she wanted, she said — but you were away. That was 
when she saw me. She saw me agoing about, miss," said Charley, 
with a short laugh of the greatest delight and pride, "and she 
thought I looked like your maid ! " 

"Did she though, really, Charley?" 

"Yes, miss!" said Charley, "really and truly." And Charley, 
with another short laugh of the purest glee, made her eyes veiy 
round again, and looked as serious as became my maid. I was 
never tired of seeing Charley in the full enjoyment of that great 
dignity, standing before me with her youthful face and figure, and 
her steady manner, and her childish exultation breaking through it 
now and then in the pleasantest way. 

"And where did you see her, Charley?" said I. 

My little maid's countenance fell, as she replied, " By the 
doctor's shop, miss." For Charley wore her black frock yet. 

I asked if the brickmaker's wife were ill, but Charley said No. 
It was some one else. Some one in her cottage who had tramped 
down to Saint Albans, and was tramping he didn't know where. 
A poor boy, Charley said. No father, no mother, no any one. 
" Like as Tom might have been, miss, if Emma and me had died 
after father," said Charley, her round eyes filling with tears. 

" And she was getting medicine for him, Charley ? " 
■"She said, miss," returned Charley, "how that he had once 
done as much for her." 

My little maid's face was so eager, and her quiet hands were 
folded so closely in one another as she stood looking at me, that I 
had no great diificulty in reading her thoughts. " Well, Charley," 
said I, "it appears to me that you and I can do no better than go 
round to Jenny's and see what's the matter." 

The alacrity with which Charley brought my bonnet and veil, 
and, having dressed me, quaintly pinned herself into her warm 
shawl and made herself look like a little old woman, sufiiciently 
expressed her readiness. So Charley and I, without saying any- 
thing to any one, went out. 

It was a cold, wild night, and the trees shuddered in the wind. 
The rain had been thick and heavy all day, and with little inter- 
mission for many days. None was falling just then, however. 
The sky had partly cleared, but was very gloomy — even above us, 
where a few stars were shining. In the north and north-west, 
where the sun had set three hours before, there was a pale dead 
light both beautiful and awful ; and into it long sullen lines of 
cloud waved up, like a sea stricken immovable as it was heaving. 
Towards London, a lurid glare overhung the whole dark waste ; 
and the contrast between these two lights, and the fancy which the 



398 BLEAK HOUSE. 

redder light engendered of an unearthly fire, gleaming on all the 
unseen buildings of the city, and on all the faces of its many thou- 
sands of wondering inhabitants, was as solemn as might be. 

I had no thought, that night — none, I am quite sure — of 
what was soon to happen to me. But I have always remembered 
since, that when we had stopped at the garden-gate to look up at 
the sky, and when we went upon our way, I had for a moment an 
undefinable impression of myself as being something different from 
what I then was. I know it was then, and there, that I had it. 
I have ever since connected the feeling with that spot and time, 
and with everything associated with that spot and time, to the 
distant voices in the town, the barking of a dog, and the sound of 
wheels coming down the miry hill. 

It was Saturday night ; and most of the people belonging to 
the place where we were going, were drinking elsewhere. We 
found it quieter than I had previously seen it, though quite as 
miserable. The kilns were burning, and a stifling vapour set 
towards us with a pale blue glare. 

We came to the cottage, where there was a feeble candle in the 
patched window. We tapped at the door, and went in. The 
mother of the little child who had died, was sitting in a chair on 
one side of the poor fire by the bed ; and opposite to her, a 
wretched boy, supported by the chimney-piece, was cowering on 
the floor. He held under his arm, like a little bundle, a fragment 
of a fur cap ; and as he tried to warm himself, he shook until the 
crazy door and window shook. The place was closer than before, 
and had an unhealthy, and a very peculiar smell. 

I had not lifted my veU when I first spoke to the woman, which 
was at the moment of our going in. The boy staggered up in- 
stantly, and stared at me with a remarkable expression of surprise 
and terror. 

His action was so quick, and my being the cause of it was so 
evident, that I stood still, instead of advancing nearer. 

" I won't go no more to the berryin ground," muttered the boy ; 
" I ain't a going there, so I tell you ! " 

I lifted my veil and spoke to the woman. She said to me in a 
low voice, "Don't mind him, ma'am. He'll soon come back to 
his head;" and said to him, "Jo, Jo, what's the matter?" 

" I know wot she's come for ! " cried the boy. 

"Who?" 

" The lady there. She's come to get me to go along with her to 
the berryin ground. I won't go to the berryin ground. I don't like 
the name on it. She might go a berryin vie." His shivering came 
on again, and as he leaned against the wall, he shook the hovel. 



BLEAK HOUSE. 399 

" He has been talking off and on about such like, all day, 
ma'am," said Jenny, softly. "Why, how you stare ! This is my 
lady, Jo." 

"Is it?" returned the boy, doubtfully, and surveying me with 
his arm held out above his burning eyes. " She looks to me the 
t'other one. It ain't the bonnet, nor yet it ain't the gownd, but 
she looks to me the t'other one." 

My little Charley, with her premature experience of illness 
and trouble, had pulled off her bonnet and shawl, and now went 
quietly up to him with a chair, and sat him down in it, like an old 
sick nurse. Except that no such attendant could have shown 
him Charley's youthful face, which seemed to engage his confi- 
dence. 

" I say ! " said the boy. " You tell me. Ain't the lady the 
t'other lady?" 

Charley shook her head, as she methodically drew his rags about 
him and made him as warm as she could. 

" ! " the boy muttered. " Then I s'pose she ain't." 

" I came to see if I could do you any good," said I. " What 
is the matter with you ? " 

" I'm a being froze," returned the boy, hoarsely, with his haggard 
gaze wandering about me, ".and then burnt up, and then froze, 
and then burnt up, ever so many times in a hour. And my head's 
all sleepy, and all a going mad-like — and I'm so dry — and my 
bones isn't half so much bones as pain." 

" When did he come here ? " I asked the woman. 

" This morning, ma'am, I found him at the corner of the 
town. I had known him up in London yonder. Hadn't I, Jo ? " 

" Tom-all- Alone's," the boy replied. 

Whenever he fixed his attention or his eyes, it was only for a 
very little while. He soon began to droop his head again, and roll 
it heavily, and speak as if he were half awake. 

" When did he come from London ? " I asked. 

" I come from London yes'day," said the boy himself, now flushed 
and hot. " I'm a going somewheres." 

" Where is he going? " I asked. 

"Somewheres," repeated the boy, in a louder tone. "I have 
been moved on, and moved on, more nor ever I was afore, since 
the t'other one giv' me the sov'ring. Mrs. Sangsby, she's always 
a watching, and a driving of me — what have I done to her ? — 
and they're all a watching and a driving of me. Eveiy one of 'em's 
doing of it, from the time when I don't get up, to the time when 
I don't go to bed. And I'm a going somewheres. That's where 
I'm a going. She told me, down in Tom-all-Alone's, as she come 



400 BLEAK HOUSE. 

from Stolbuns, and so I took the Stolbuns Road. It's as good as 
another." 

He always concluded by addressing Charley. 

"What is to be done with him?" said I, taking the woman 
aside. "He could not travel in this state, even if he had a pur- 
pose, and knew where he was going ! " 

" I know no more, ma'am, than the dead," she replied, glancing 
compassionately at him. " Perhaps the dead know better, if they 
could only tell us. I've kept him here all day for pity's sake, and 
I've given him broth and physic, and Liz has gone to tiy if any 
one will take him in (here's my pretty in the bed — her child, but 
I call it mine) ; but I can't keep him long, for if my husband was 
to come home and find him here, he'd be rough in putting him out, 
and might do him a hurt. Hark ! Here comes Liz back ! " 

The other woman came hurriedly in as she spoke, and the boy 
got up with a half-obscured sense that he was expected to be going. 
When the little child awoke, and when and how Charley got at 
it, took it out of bed, and began to walk about hushing it, I don't 
know. There she was, doing all this, in a quiet motherly manner, 
as if she were living in Mrs. Blinder's attic with Tom and Emma 
again. 

The friend had been here and there, and had been played about 
from hand to hand, and had come back as she went. At first it 
was too early for the boy to be received into the proper refuge, and 
at last it was too late. One ofiicial sent her to another, and the 
other sent her back again to the first, and so backward and for- 
ward ; until it appeared to me as if both must have been appointed 
for their skill in evading their duties, instead of performing them. 
And now, after all, she said, breathing quickly, for she had been 
running, and was frightened too, " Jenny, your master's on the road 
home, and mine's not far behind, and the Lord help the boy, for 
we can do no more for him ! " They put a few halfpence together 
and hurried them into his hand, and so, in an oblivious, half-thank- 
ful, half-insensible way, he shufiled out of the house. 

" Give me the child, my dear ! " said its mother to Charley, 
" and thank you kindly too ! Jenny, woman dear, good night ! 
Young lady, if my master don't fall out with me, I'll look down by 
the kiln by-and-bye, where the boy will be most like, and again in 
the morning ! " She hurried off" ; and presently we passed her 
hushing and singing to her child at her own door, and looking 
anxiously along the road for her drunken husband. 

I was afraid of stajdng then, to speak to either woman, lest I 
should bring her into trouble. But I said to Charley that we 
must not leave the boy to die. Charley, who knew what to do 



BLEAK HOUSE. 401 

much better than I did, and whose quickness equalled her presence 
of mind, glided on before me, and presently we came up with Jo, 
just short of the brick-kiln. 

I think he must have begun his journey with some small bundle 
under his arm, and must have had it stolen, or lost it. For he 
still carried his wretched fragment of fur cap like a bundle, though 
he went bareheaded througli the rain, which now fell fast. He 
stopped when we called to him, and again showed a dread of me 
when I came up ; standing with his lustrous eyes fixed upon me, 
and even arrested in his shivering fit. 

I asked him to come with us, and we would take care that he 
had some shelter for the night. 

"I don't want no shelter,'' he said; "I can lay amongst the 
warm bricks." 

"But don't you know that people die there?" returned Charley. 

" They dies everywheres," said the boy. " They dies in their 
lodgings — she knows Avhere ; I showed her — and they dies down 
in Tom-all-Alone's in heaps. They dies more than they lives, 
according to what / see." Then he hoarsely whispered Charley. 
" If she ain't the t'other one, she ain't the forrenner. Is there 
three of 'em then 1 " 

Charley looked at me a little frightened. I felt half frightened 
at myself when the boy glared on me so. 

But he turaed and followed, when I beckoned to him ; and 
finding that he acknowledged that influence in me, I led the way 
straight home. It was not far ; only at the summit of the hill. 
We passed but one man. I doubted if we should have got home 
without assistance ; the boy's steps were so uncertain and tremu- 
lous. He made no complaint, however, and was strangely uncon- 
cerned about himself, if I may say so strange a thing. 

Leaving him in the hall for a monent, shrunk into a corner 
of the window-seat, and staring with an indiff'erence that could 
scarcely be called wonder, at the comfort and brightness about him, 
I went into the drawing-room to speak to my Guardian. There I 
found Mr. Skimpole, who had come down by the coach, as he fre- 
quently did without notice, and never bringing any clothes with 
him, but always borrowing everything he wanted. 

They came out with me directly, to look at the boy. The ser- 
vants had gathered in the hall, too ; and he shivered in the window- 
seat with Charley standing by him, like some wounded animal that 
had been found in a ditch. 

" This is a sorrowful case," said my Guardian, after asking him 
a question or two, and touching him, and examining his eyes. 
" What do you say, Harold ? " 

2d 



402 BLEAK HOUSE. 

"You had better turn him out," said Mr. Skimpole. 

" What do you mean ? " inquired my Guardian, almost sternly. 

"My dear Jarndyce," said Mr. Skimpole, "you know what I 
am : I am a child. Be cross to me, if I deserve it. But I have a 
constitutional objection to this sort of thing. I always had, when 
I was a medical man. He's not safe, you know. There's a very 
bad sort of fever about him." 

Mr. Skimpole had retreated from the hall to the drawing-room 
again, and said this in his airy way, seated on the music-stool as 
we stood by. 

"You'll say it's childish," observed Mr. Skimpole, looking gaily 
at us. " Well, I dare say it may be ; but I am a child, and I 
never pretend to be anything else. If you put him out in the road, 
you only put him where he was before. He will be no worse off 
than he was, you know. Even make him better off, if you like. 
Give him sixpence, or five shillings, or five pound ten — you are 
arithmeticians, and I am not — and get rid of him ! " 

"And what is he to do then?" asked my Guardian. 

"Upon my life," said Mr. Skimpole, shrugging his shoulders 
with his engaging smile, " I have not the least idea what he is to 
do then. But I have no doubt he'll do it." 

"Now, is it not a horrible reflection," said my Guardian, to 
whom I had hastily explained the unavailing efforts of the two 
women, "is it not a horrible reflection," walking up and down and 
rumpling his hair, " that if this wretched creature were a convicted 
prisoner, his hospital would be wide open to him, and he would be 
as well taken care of as any sick boy in the kingdom ? " 

"My dear Jarndyce," returned Mr. Skimpole, "you'll pardon 
the simplicity of the question, coming as it does from a creature 
who is perfectly simple in worldly matters — but, why isnH he a 
prisoner then ? " 

My Guardian stopped and looked at him with a whimsical mix- 
ture of amusement and indignation in his face. 

"Our young friend is not to be suspected of any delicacy, I 
should imagine," said Mr. Skimpole, unabashed and candid. "It 
seems to me that it would be wiser, as well as in a certain kind of 
way more respectable, if he showed some misdirected energy that 
got him into prison. There would be more of an adventurous 
spirit in it, and consequently more of a certain sort of poetry." 

" I believe," returned my Guardian, resuming his uneasy walk, 
"that there is not such another child on earth as yourself" 

"Do you really?" said Mr. Skimpole; "I dare say! But, I 
confess I don't see why our young friend, in his degree, should not 
seek to invest himself with such poetiy as is open to him. He is 



BLEAK HOUSE. 403 

no doubt born with an appetite — probably, when he is in a safer 
state of health, he has an excellent appetite. Very well. At our 
young friend's natural dinner-hour, most likely about noon, our 
young friend says in effect to society, ' I am hungry ; will you have 
the goodness to produce your spoon, and feed me?' Society, 
which has taken upon itself the general arrangement of the whole 
system of spoons, and professes to have a spoon for our young 
friend, does not produce that spoon ; and our young friend, there- 
fore, says, 'You really must excuse me if I seize it.' Now, this 
appears to me a case of misdirected energy, which has a certain 
amount of reason in it, and a certain amount of romance ; and I 
don't know but what I should be more interested in our young 
friend, as an illustration of such a case, than merely as a poor 
vagabond — which any one can be." 

"In the meantime," I ventured to observe, "he is getting 
worse." 

"In the meantime," said Mr. Skimpole cheerfully, "as Miss 
Summerson, with her practical good sense, observes, he is getting 
worse. Therefore I recommend your turning him out before he 
gets still worse." 

The amiable face with which he said it, I think I shall never 
forget. 

" Of course, little woman," observed my Guardian, turning to 
me, " I can ensure his admission into the proper place by merely 
going there to enforce it, though it's a bad state of things when, in 
his condition, that is necessary. But it's growing late, and is a very 
bad night, and the boy is worn out already. There is a bed in the 
wholesome loft-room by the stable ; we had better keep him there 
till morning, when he can be wrapped up and removed. We'll do 
that." 

" ! " said Mr. Skimpole, with his hands upon the keys of the 
piano, as we moved away. " Are you going back to our young 
friend ? " 

" Yes," said my Guardian. 

" How I envy you your constitution, Jarndyce ! " returned Mr. 
Skimpole, with playful admiration. " You don't mind these things, 
neither does Miss Summerson. You are ready at all times to go 
anywhere, and do anything. Such is Will ! I have no Will at 
all — and no Won't — simply Can't." 

" You can't recommend anything for the boy, I suppose 1 " said 
my Guardian, looking back over his shoulder, half angrily ; only 
half angrily, for he never seemed to consider Mr. Skimpole an ac- 
countable being. 

" My dear Jarndyce, I observed a bottle of cooling medicine in 



404 BLEAK HOUSE. 

his pocket, and it's impossible for him to do better than take it. 
You can tell them to sprinkle a little vinegar about the place where 
he sleeps, and to keep it moderately cool, and him moderately 
warm. But it is mere impertinence in me to offer any recom- 
mendation. Miss Summerson has such a knowledge of detail, and 
such a capacity for the administration of detail, that she knows all 
about it." 

We went back into the hall, and explained to Jo what we pro- 
posed to do, which Charley explained to him again, and which he 
received with the languid unconcern I had already noticed, wearily 
looking on at what was done, as if it were for somebody else. The 
servants compassionating his miserable state, and being very anxious 
to help, we soon got the loft-room ready ; and some of the men 
about the house carried him across the wet yard, well wrapped up. 
It was pleasant to observe how kind they were to him, and how 
there appeared to be a general impression among them that fre- 
quently calling him " Old Chap " was likely to revive his spirits. 
Charley directed the operations, and went to and fro between the 
loft-room and the house with such little stimulants and comforts as 
we thought it safe to give him. My Guardian himself saw him 
before he was left for the night, and reported to me, when he 
returned to the Growlery to write a letter on the boy's behalf, 
which a messenger was charged to deliver at daylight in the morn- 
ing, that he seemed easier, and inclined to sleep. They had fastened 
his door on the outside, he said, in case of his being delirious ; but 
had so arranged that he coidd not make any noise without being 
heard. 

Ada being in our room with a cold, Mr. Skimpole was left alone 
all this time, and entertained himself by playing snatches of pathetic 
airs, and sometimes singing to them (as we heard at a distance) 
with great expression and feeling. When we rejoined him in the 
drawing-room he said he would give us a little ballad, which had 
come into his head, "apropos of our young fiiend;" and he sang 
one about a Peasant boy, 1 

" Thrown on the wide world, doom'd to wander and roam, I 

Bereft of his parents, bereft of a home." * 

— quite exquisitely. It was a song that always made him cry, he 
told us. 

He was extremely gay all the rest of the evening : "for he 
absolutely chirped," those were his delighted words; "when he 
thought by what a happy talent for business he was surrounded," 
He gave us, in his glass of negus, "Better health to our young 
friend ! " and supposed, and gaily pursued, the case of his being 



BLEAK HOUSE. 405 

reserved like Whittington to become Lord Mayor of London. In 
that event, no doubt, he would establish the Jarndyce Institution 
and the Summerson Alms-houses, and a little annual Corporation 
Pilgrimage to St. Albans. He had no doubt, he said, that our 
young friend was an excellent boy in his way, but his way was not 
the Harold Skimpole way; what Harold Skimpole was, Harold 
Skimpole had found himself, to his considerable surprise, when he 
first made his own acquaintance ; he had accepted himself with all 
his failings, and had thought it sound philosophy to make the best 
of the bargain ; and he hoped we would do the same. 

Charley's last report was, that the boy was quiet. I could see, 
from my window, the lantern they had left him burning quietly ; 
and I went to bed very happy to think that he was sheltered. 

There was more movement and more talking than usual a little 
before day-break, and it awoke me. As I was dressing, I looked out 
of my window, and asked one of our men who had been among the 
active sympathisers last night, whether there was anything wrong 
about the house. The lantern was still burning in the loft-window. 

"It's the boy, miss," said he. 

" Is he worse ? " I inquired. 

" Gone, miss." 

" Dead ! " 

" Dead, miss ? No. Gone clean off." 

At what time of the night he had gone, or how, or why, it seemed 
hopeless ever to divine. The door remaining as it had been left, 
and the lantern standing in the window, it could only be supposed 
that he had got out by a trap in the floor which communicated 
with an empty cart-house below. But he had shut it down again, 
if that were so ; and it looked as if it had not been raised. 
Nothing of any kind was missing. On this fact being clearly as- 
certained, we all yielded to the painful belief that delirium had 
come upon him in the night, and that, allured by some imaginary 
object, or pursued by some imaginary horror, he had strayed away 
in that worse than helpless state ; — all of us, that is to say, but 
Mr. Skimpole, who repeatedly suggested, in his usual easy light 
style, that it had occurred to our young friend that he was not a 
safe inmate, having a bad kind of fever upon him ; and that he 
had, with great natural politeness, taken himself off. 

Every possible inquiry was made, and every place was searched. 
The brick-kilns were examined, the cottages were visited, the two 
' women were particularly questioned, but they knew nothing of him, 
" and nobody could doubt that their wonder was genuine. The 
; weather had for some time been too wet, and the night itself had 
(^been too wet, to admit of any tracing by footsteps. Hedge and 



406 BLEAK HOUSE. 

ditch, and wall, and rick and stack, were examined by our men for 
. a long distance round, lest tlie boy should be lying in such a place 
insensible or dead ; but nothing was seen to indicate that he had 
ever been near. From the time when he was left in the loft-room, 
he vanished. 

The search continued for five days. I do not mean that it ceased, 
even then ; but that my attention was then diverted into a current 
very memorable to me. 

As Charley was at her writing again in my room in the evening, 
and as I sat opposite to her at work, I felt the table tremble. 
Looking up, I saw my little maid shivering from head to foot. 

"Charley," said I, "are you so cold?" 

"I think I am, miss," she replied. "I don't know what it is. 
I can't hold myself still. I felt so, yesterday ; at about this same 
time, miss. Don't be uneasy, I think I'm ill." 

I heard Ada's voice outside, and I hurried to the door of com- 
munication between my room and our pretty sitting-room, and 
locked it. Just in time, for she tapped at it while my hand was 
yet upon the key. 

Ada called to me to let her in ; but I said, " Not now, my dear- 
est. Go away. There's nothing the matter ; I will come to you 
presently." Ah ! it was a long, long time, before my darling girl 
and I were companions again. 

Charley fell ill. In twelve hours she was very ill. I moved 
her to my room, and laid her in my bed, and sat down quietly to 
nurse her. I told my Guardian all about it, and why I felt it was 
necessary that I should seclude myself, and my reason for not see- 
ing my darling above all. At first she came very often to the door, 
and called to me, and even reproached me with sobs and tears ; but 
I wrote her a long letter, saying that she made me anxious and un- 
happy, and imploring her, as she loved me, and wished my mind to 
be at peace, to come no nearer than the garden. After that, she 
came beneath the window, even oftener than she had come to the 
door ; and, if I had learnt to love her dear sweet voice before when 
we were hardly ever apart, how did I learn to love it then, when I 
stood behind the window-curtain listening and replying, but not so 
much as looking out ! How did I learn to love it afterwards, when 
the harder time came ! 

They put a bed for me in our sitting-room ; and by keeping the 
door wide open, I turned the two rooms into one, now that Ada had 
vacated that part of the house, and kept them always fresh and 
airy. There was not a servant, in or about the house, but was so 
good that they would all most gladly have come to me at any hour 
of the day or night, without the least fear or unwillingness ; but I 




NURSE AND PATIENT. 



408 BLEAK HOUSE. 

thought it best to choose one worthy woman who was never to see 
Ada, and whom I could trust to come and go with all precaution. 
Through her means, I got out to take the air with my Gruardian, 
when there was no fear of meeting Ada ; and wanted for nothing 
in the way of attendance, any more than in any other respect. 

And thus poor Charley sickened, and grew worse, and fell into 
heavy danger of death, and lay severely ill for many a long round of 
day and night. So patient she was, so uncomplaining, and inspired 
by such a gentle fortitude, that very often as I sat by Charley, hold- 
ing her head in my arms — repose would come to her, so, when it 
would come to her in no other attitude — I silently prayed to our 
Father in heaven that I might not forget the lesson which this 
little sister taught me. 

I was very sorrowful to think that Charley's pretty looks would 
change and be disfigured, even if she recovered — she was such a 
child, with her dimpled face — but that thought was, for the 
greater part, lost in her greater peril. When she was at the worst, 
and her mind rambled again to the cares of her father's sick bed, 
and the little children, she still knew me so far as that she would 
be quiet in my arms when she could lie quiet nowhere else, and 
murmur out the wanderings of her mind less restlessly. At those 
times I used to think, how should I ever tell the two remaining 
babies that the baby who had learned of her faithful heart to be a 
mother to them in their need, was dead ! 

There were other times when Charley knew me well, and talked 
to me ; telling me that she sent her love to Tom and Emma, and 
that she was sure Tom would grow up to be a good man. At 
those times, Charley would speak to me of what she had read to 
her father as well as she could, to comfort him ; of that young 
man carried out to be buried, who was the only son of his mother 
and she was a widow ; of the ruler's daughter raised up by the 
gracious hand upon her bed of death. And Charley told me that 
when her father died, she had kneeled down and prayed in her 
first sorrow that he likewise might be raised up, and given back to 
his poor children ; and that if she should never get better, and 
should die too, she thought it likely that it might come into Tom's 
mind to offer the same prayer for her. Then would I show Tom 
how those people of old days had been brought back to life on 
earth, only that we might know our hope to be restored in Heaven ! 

But of all the various times there were in Charley's illness, there 
was not one when she lost the gentle qualities I have spoken of. 
And there were many, many, when I thought in the night of the 
last high belief in the watching Angel, and the last higher trust in 
God, on the part of her poor despised father. 



BLEAK HOUSE. 409 

And Charley did not die. She flutteringly and slowly turned 
the dangerous point, after long lingering there, and then began to 
mend. The hope that never had been given, from the first, of 
Charley being in outward appearance Charley any more, soon began 
to be encouraged ; and even that prospered, and T saw her growing 
into her old childish likeness again. 

It was a great morning, when I could tell Ada all this as she 
stood out in the garden ; and it was a great evening, when Charley 
and I at last took tea together in the next room. But, on that 
same evening, I felt that I was stricken cold. 

Happily for both of us, it was not until Charley was safe in bed 
again and placidly asleep, that I began to think the contagion of 
her illness was upon me. I had been able easily to hide what I 
had felt at tea-time, but I was past that already now, and I knew 
that I was rapidly following in Charley's steps. 

I was well enough, however, to be up early in the morning, and 
to return my darling's cheerful blessing from the garden, and to 
talk with her as long as usual. But I was not free from an im- 
pression that I had been walking about the two rooms in the 
night, a little beside myself, though knowing where I was ; and 
I felt confused at times — with a curious sense of fulness, as if I 
were becoming too large altogether. 

In the evening I was so much worse, that I resolved to prepare 
Charley : with which view, I said, " You're getting quite strong, 
Charley, are you not ? " 

" quite ! " said Charley. 

" Strong enough to be told a secret, I think, Charley 1 " 

" Quite strong enough for that, miss ! " cried Charley. But 
Charley's face fell in the height of her delight, for she saw the 
secret in my face ; and she came out of the great chair, and fell 
upon my bosom, and said, " miss, it's my doing ! It's my doing ! " 
and a gi-eat deal more, out of the fulness of her grateful heart. 

" Now, Charley," said I, after letting her go on for a little 
while, " if I am to be ill, my great trust, humanly speaking, is in 
you. And unless you are as quiet and composed for me, as you 
always were for yourself, you can never fulfil it, Charley." 

"If you'll let me cry a little longer, miss," said Charley. "0 
my dear, my dear ! if you'll only let me cry a little longer, my 
dear ! " — how affectionately and devotedly she poured this out, as 
she clung to my neck, I never can remember without tears — " I'll 
be good." 

So I let Charley cry a little longer, and it did us both good. 

"Trust in me, now, if you please, miss," said Charley, quietly. 
"I am listening to everything you say." 



410 BLEAK HOUSE. 

"It is very little at present, Charley. I shall tell your doctor to- 
night that I don't think I am well, and that you are going to nurse 
me." 

For that, the poor child thanked me with her whole heart. 

" And in the morning, when you hear Miss Ada in the garden, if 
I should not be quite able to go to the window-curtain as usual, do 
you go, Charley, and say I am asleep — that I have rather tired 
myself, and am asleep. At all times keep the room as I have 
kept it, Charley, and let no one come." 

Charley promised, and I lay down, for I was very heavy. I saw 
the doctor that night, and asked the favour of him that I wished 
to ask, relative to his saying nothing of my illness in the house as 
yet. I have a very indistinct remembrance of that night melting 
into day, and of day melting into night again ; but I was just 
able, on the first morning, to get to the window, and speak to my 
darling. 

On the second morning I heard her dear voice — how dear 
now ! — outside ; and I asked Charley, with some diflBculty (speech 
being painful to me), to go and say I was asleep. I heard her 
answer softly, " Don't disturb her, Charley, for the world ! " 

" How does my own Pride look, Charley ? " I inquired. 

" Disappointed, miss," said Charley, peeping through the curtain. 

"But I know she is very beautiful this morning." 

" She is indeed, miss," answered Charley, peeping. " Still look- 
ing up at the window." 

With her blue clear eyes, God bless them, always loveliest when 
raised like that ! 

I called Charley to me, and gave her her last charge. 

" Now, Charley, when she knows I am ill, she will try to make 
her way into the room. Keep her out, Charley, if you love me 
truly, to the last ! Charley, if you let her in but once, only to look 
upon me for one moment as I lie here, I shall die." 

" I never will ! I never -will ! " she promised me. 

" I believe it, my dear Charley. And now come and sit beside 
me for a little while, and touch me with your hand. For I cannot 
see you, Charley; I am blind." 



CHAPTER XXXIL I 

THE APPOINTED TIME. 

It is night in Lincoln's Inn — perplexed and troublous valley of 
the shadow of the law, where suitors generally find but little 
day — and fat candles are snuffed out in offices, and clerks have 



BLEAK HOUSE. 411 

rattled down the crazy wooden stairs, and dispersed. The bell 
that rings at nine o'clock, has ceased its doleful clangour about 
nothing ; the gates are shut ; and the night-j^orter, a solemn warder 
with a mighty power of sleep, keeps guard in his lodge. From 
tiers of staircase Avindows, clogged lamps like the eyes of Equity, 
bleared Argus with a fathondess pocket for every eye and an eye 
upon it, dimly blink at the stars. In dirty upper casements, here 
and there, hazy little patches of candle-light reveal where some wise 
draughtsman and conveyancer yet toils for the entanglement of real 
estate in meshes of sheepskin, in the average ratio of about a dozen 
of sheep to an acre of land. Over which bee-like industry, these 
benefactors of their species linger yet, though oifice-hours be past : 
that they may give, for every day, some good account at last. 

In the neighbouring court, where the Lord Chancellor of the Rag 
and Bottle shop dwells, there is a general tendency towards beer 
and supper. Mrs. Piper and Mrs. Perkins, whose respective sons, 
engaged with a circle of acquaintance in the game of hide and seek, 
have been lying in ambush about the bye-ways of Chancery Lane for 
some hours, and scouring the plain of the same thoroughfare to the 
confusion of passengers — Mrs. Piper and Mrs. Perkins have but 
now exchanged congratulations on the children being abed ; and 
they still linger on a door-step over a few parting words. Mr. 
Krook and his lodger, and the fact of Mr. Krook's being " contin- 
ual in hquor," and the testamentary prospects of the young man 
are, as usual, the staple of their conversation. But they have 
something to say, likewise, of the Harmonic Meeting at the Sol's 
Arms; where the sound of the piano through the partly-opened 
windows jingles out into the court, and where Little Swills, after 
keeping the lovers of harmony in a roar like a very Yorick, may 
now be heard taking the gruff line in a concerted piece, and senti- 
mentally adjuring his friends and patrons to Listen, listen, listen, 
Tew the wa-ter-Fall ! Mrs. Perkins and Mrs. Piper compare opin- 
ions on the subject of the young lady of professional celebrity who 
assists at the Harmonic Meetings, and who has a space to herself in 
the manuscript announcement in the window ; Mrs. Perkins pos- 
sessing information that she has been married a year and a half, 
though announced as Miss M. Melvilleson, the noted syren, and 
that her baby is clandestinely conveyed to the Sol's Arms every 
night to receive its natural nourishment during the entertainments. 
"Sooner than which, myself," says Mrs. Perkins, "I would get my 
living by selling lucifers." Mrs. Piper, as in duty bound, is of the 
same opinion ; holding that a private station is better than public 
applause, and thanking Heaven for her own (and, by implication, 
Mrs. Perkins's) respectability. By this time, the pot-boy of the 



412 BLEAK HOUSE. 

Sol's Arms appearing with her supper-pint well frothed, Mrs. Piper 
accepts that tankard and retires in-doors, first giving a fair good 
night to Mrs. Perkins, who has had her own pint in her hand ever 
since it was fetched from the same hostelry by young Perkins be- 
fore he was sent to bed. Now, there is a sound of putting up 
shop-shutters in the court, and a smell as of the smoking of pipes ; 
and shooting stars are seen in upper windows, further indicating 
retirement to rest. Now, too, the policeman begins to push at 
doors ; to try fastenings ; to be suspicious of bundles ; and to 
administer his beat, on the hypothesis that every one is either 
robbing or being robbed. 

It is a close night, though the damp cold is searching too ; and 
there is a laggard mist a little way up in the air. It is a fine 
steaming night to turn the slaughter-houses, the unwholesome 
trades, the sewerage, bad water, and burial-grounds to account, 
and give the Registrar of Deaths some extra business. It may be 
something in the air — there is plenty in it — or it may be some- 
thing in himself, that is in fault ; but Mr. Weevle, otherwise Job- 
ling, is very ill at ease. He comes and goes, between his own room 
and the open street door, twenty times an hour. He has been doing 
so, ever since it fell dark. Since the Chancellor shut up his shop, 
which he did veiy early to-night, Mr. Weevle has been down and 
up, and down and up (with a cheap tight velvet skull-cap on his 
head, making his whiskers look out of all proportion), oftener than 
before. 

It is no phenomenon that Mr. Snagsby should be ill at ease too ; 
for he always is so, more or less, under the oppressive influence of 
the secret that is upon him. Impelled by the mystery, of which 
he is a partaker, and yet in which he is not a sharer, Mr. Snagsby 
haunts what seems to be its fountain-head — the rag and bottle 
shop in the court. It has an irresistible attraction for him. Even 
now, coming round by the Sol's Arms with the intention of passing 
down the court, and out at the Chancery Lane end, and so termi- 
nating his unpremeditated after-supper stroll of ten minutes long 
from his own door and back again, Mr. Snagsby approaches. 

"What, Mr. Weevle?" says the stationer, stopping to speak. 
" Are you there % " 

" Ay ! " says Weevle. " Here I am, Mr. Snagsby." 

"Airing yourself, as I am doing, before you go to bed?" the 
stationer inquires. 

" Why, there's not much air to be got here ; and what there is, 
is not very freshening," Weevle answers, glancing up and down 
the court. 

" Very true, sir. Don't you observe," says Mr. Snagsby, pausing 



BLEAK HOUSE. 413 

to sniff and taste the air a little; " don't you observe, Mr. Weevle, 
that you're — not to put too fine a point upon it — that you're 
rather greasy here, sir ? " 

"Why, I have noticed myself that there is a queer kind of 
flavour in the place to-night," Mr. Weevle rejoins. " I suppose 
it's chops at the Sol's Arms." 

" Chops, do you think 1 Oh ! — Chops, eh ? " Mr. Snagsby 
sniffs and tastes again. "Well, sir, I suppose it is. But I should 
say their cook at the Sol wanted a little looking after. She has 
been burning 'em, sir ! And I don't think ; " Mr. Snagsby sniffs 
and tastes again, and then spits and wipes his mouth ; " I don't 
think — not to put too fine a point upon it — that they were quite 
fresh, when they were shown the gridiron." 

" That's very likely. It's a tainting sort of weather." 

"It is a tainting sort of weather," says Mr. Snagsby; "and I 
find it sinking to the spirits." 

"By G-eorge ! / find it gives me the horrors," returns Mr. 
Weevle. 

" Then, you see, you live in a lonesome way, and in a lonesome 
room, with a black circumstance hanging over it," says Mr. Snagsby, 
looking in past the other's shoulder along the dark passage, and 
then falling back a step to look up at the house. " I couldn't live 
in that room alone, as you do, sir. I should get so fidgety and 
worried of an evening, sometimes, that I should be driven to come 
to the door, and stand here, sooner than sit there. But then it's 
very true that you didn't see, in your room, what I saw there. 
That makes a difference." 

" I know quite enough about it," returns Tony. 

" It's not agreeable, is it 1 " pursues Mr. Snagsby, coughing his 
cough of mild persuasion behind his hand. " Mr. Krook ought to 
consider it in the rent. I hope he does, I am sure." 

" I hope he does," says Tony. " But I doubt it ! " 

"You find the rent high, do you, sir?" returns the stationer. 
" Rents are high about here. I don't know how it is exactly, but 
the law seems to put things up in price. Not," adds Mr. Snagsby, 
with his apologetic cough, "that I mean to say a word against 
the profession I get my living by." 

Mr. Weevle again glances up and down the court, and then looks 
at the stationer. Mr. Snagsby, blankly catching his eye, looks up- 
ward for a star or so, and coughs a cough expressive of not exactly 
.seeing his way out of this conversation. 

"It's a curious fact, sir," he observes, slowly rubbing his hands, 
" that he should have been " 

"Who's he?" interrupts Mr. Weevle. 



414 BLEAIi HOUSE. 

" The deceased, you know," says Mr. Snagsby, twitching his 
head and right eyebrow towards the staircase, and tapping his 
acquaintance on the button. 

"Ah to be sure ! " returns the other, as if he were not over-fond 
of the subject. "I thought we had done with him." 

" I was only going to say, it's a curious fact, sir, that he should 
have come and lived here, and been one of my writers, and then 
that you should come and live here, and be one of my writers, too. 
Which there is nothing derogatory, but far from it in the appel- 
lation," says Mr. Snagsby, breaking off with a mistrust that he 
may have unpolitely asserted a kind of proprietorship in Mr. 
Weevle, "because I have known writers that have gone into 
Brewers' houses and done really very respectable indeed. Emi- 
nently respectable, sir," adds Mr. Snagsby, with a misgiving that 
he has not improved the matter. 

"It's a curious coincidence, as you say," answers Weevle, once 
more glancing up and down the court. t 

"Seems a Fate in it, don't there?" suggests the stationer. ! 

" There does." 

"Just so," observes the stationer, with his confirmatory cough. 
"Quite a Fate in it. Quite a Fate. Well, Mr. Weevle, I am 
afraid I must bid you good night ; " Mr. Snagsby speaks as if it 
made him desolate to go, though he has been casting about for any 
means of escape ever since he stopped to speak ; " my little woman 
will be looking for me, else. Good night, sir ! " 

If Mr. Snagsby hastens home to save his little woman the trouble 
of looking for him, he might set his mind at rest on that score. 
His little woman has had her eye upon him round the Sol's Arms 
all this time, and now glides after him with a pocket handker- 
chief wrapped over her head ; honouring Mr. Weevle and his door- 
way with a very searching glance as she goes past. 

"You'll know me again, ma'am, at all events," says Mr. Weevle 
to himself; "and I can't compliment you on your appearance, 
whoever you are, with your head tied up in a bundle. Is this fellow 
never coming ! " 

This fellow approaches as he speaks. Mr. Weevle softly holds 
up his finger, and draws him into the passage, and closes the street 
door. Then, they go up-stairs ; Mr. Weevle heavily, and Mr. 
Guppy (for it is he) very lightly indeed. When they are shut 
into the back room, they speak low. 

" I thought you had gone to Jericho at least, instead of coming 
here," says Tony. 

" Why, I said about ten." 

"You said about ten," Tony repeats. "Yes, so you did say 



BLEAK HOUSE. 415 

about ten. But, according to my count, it's ten times ten — it's 
a hundred o'clock. I never had such a night in my life ! " 

" What has been the matter ? " 

" That's it ! " says Tony. " Nothing has been the matter. But, 
here have I been stewing and fuming in this jolly old crib, till I have 
had the horrors falling on me as thick as hail. There's a blessed- 
looking candle ! " says Tony, pointing to the heavily burning taper 
on his table with a gi'eat cabbage head and a long winding-sheet. 

" That's easily improved," Mr. Guppy observes, as he takes the 
snuffers in hand. 

" Is it 1 " returns his friend. " Not so easily as you think. It 
has been smouldering like that, ever since it was lighted." 

" Why, what's the matter with you, Tony 1 " inquires Mr. Guppy, 
looking at him, snuffers in hand, as he sits down with his elbow on 
the table. 

" William Guppy," replies the other, " I am in the Downs. It's 
this unbearably dull, suicidal room — and old Boguey down -stairs, I 
suppose." Mr. Weevle moodily pushes the snuffers-tray from him 
with his elbow, leans his head on his hand, puts his feet on the 
fender, and looks at the fire. Mr. Guppy, observing him, slightly 
tosses his head, and sits down on the other side of the table in an 
easy attitude. 

" Wasn't that Snagsby talking to you, Tony ? " 

"Yes, and be yes, it was Snagsby," says Mr. Weevle, alter- 
ing the construction of his sentence. 

" On business 1 " 

" No. No business. He was only sauntering by, and stopped 
to prose." 

" I thought it was Snagsby," says Mr. Guppy, " and thought it 
as well that he shouldn't see me; so I waited till he was gone." 

"There we go again, William G. ! " cries Tony, looking up for an 
\ instant. " So mysterious and secret ! By George, if we were going 
I to commit a murder, we couldn't have more mystery about it ! " 

Mr. Guppy affects to smile ; and with the view of changing the 
I conversation, looks with an admiration, real or pretended, round 
'i the room at the Galaxy gallery of British beauty ; terminating his 
'i survey with the portrait of Lady Dedlock over the mantel-shelf, in 
•which she is represented on a terrace, with a pedestal upon the 
'terrace, and a vase upon the pedestal, and her shawl upon the vase, 
I and a prodigious piece of fur upon the shawl, and her arm on the 
^iprodigious piece of fur, and a bracelet on her arm. 

" That's very like Lady Dedlock," says Mr. Guppy. " It's a 
speaking likeness." 

" I wish it was," growls Tony, without changing his position. 
"I should have some fashionable conversation here, then." 



416 BLEAK HOUSE. 

Finding, by this time, that his friend is not to be wheedled into 
a more sociable humour, Mr. G-uppy puts about upon the ill-used 
tack, and remonstrates with him. 

" Tony," says he, " I can make allowances for lowness of spirits, 
for no man knows what it is when it does come upon a man, better 
than I do ; and no man perhaps has a better right to know it, than 
a man who has an unrequited image imprinted on his art. But there 
are bounds to these things when an unoffending party is in question, 
and I will acknowledge to you, Tony, that I don't think your man- 
ner on the present occasion is hospitable or quite gentlemanly." 

" This is strong language, William Guppy," returns Mr. Weevle. 

"Sir, it may be," retorts Mr. William Guppy, "but I feel 
strongly when I use it." 

Mr. Weevle admits that he has been wrong, and begs Mr. Wil- 
liam Guppy to think no more about it. Mr. William Guppy, how- 
ever, having got the advantage, cannot quite release it without a 
little more injured remonstrance. 

"No ! Dash it, Tony," says that gentleman, "you really ought 
to be careful how you woimd the feelings of a man, who has an 
unrequited image imprinted on his art, and who is not altogether 
happy in those chords which vibrate to the tenderest emotions. You, 
Tony, possess in yourself all that is calculated to charm the eye, 
and allure the taste. It is not — happily for you, perhaps, and I 
may wish that I could say the same — it is not your character to 
hover around one flower. The ole garden is open to you, and your 
airy pinions carry you through it. Still, Tony, far be it from me, 
I am sure, to wound even your feelings without a cause ! " 

Tony again entreats that the subject may be no longer pursued, 
saying emphatically, " William Guppy, drop it ! " Mr. Guppy 
acquiesces, with the reply, " I never should have taken it up, Tony, 
of my own accord." 

"And now," says Tony, stirring the fire, "touching this same 
bundle of letters. Isn't it an extraordinary thing of Krook to 
have appointed twelve o'clock to-night to hand 'em over to me ? " 

" Very. What did he do it for ? " 

"What does he do anything for? He don't know. Said, to- 
day was his birthday, and he'd hand 'em over to-night at twelve 
o'clock. He'll have dnmk himself blind by that time. He has 
been at it all day." 

" He hasn't forgotten the appointment, I hope ? " 

" Forgotten 1 Trust him for that. He never forgets anything. 
I saw him to-night, about eight — helped him to shut up his shop 
— ■ and he had got the letters then in his hairy cap. He pulled it 
off, and showed 'em me. When the shop was closed, he took them 



BLEAK HOUSE. 417 

out of his cap, hung his cap on the chair-back, and stood turning 
them over before the fire. I heard him a little while afterwards 
through the floor here, humming, like the wind, the only song he 
knows — about Bibo, and old Charon, and Bibo being dmnk when 
he died, or something or other. He has been as quiet, since, as an 
old rat asleep in his hole." 

" And you are to go down at twelve ?" 

"At twelve. And, as I tell you, when you came it seemed to 
me a hundred." 

" Tony," says Mr. Guppy, after considering a little with his legs 
crossed, " he can't read yet, can he 1 " 

" Read ! He'll never read. He can make all the letters sepa- 
rately, and he knows most of them separately when he sees them ; 
he has got on that much, under me ; but he can't put them together. 
He's too old to acquire the knack of it now — and too drunk." 

"Tony," says Mr. Guppy, uncrossing and recrossing his legs; 
"how do you suppose he spelt out that name of Hawdon?" 

" He never spelt it out. You know what a curious power of eye 
he has, and how he has been used to employ himself in copying 
things by eye alone. He imitated it — evidently from the direc- 
tion of a letter ; and asked me what it meant." 

" Tony," says Mr. Guppy, uncrossing and recrossing his legs 
again ; " should you say that the original was a man's writing or a 
woman's 1 " 

" A woman's. Fifty to one a lady's — slopes a good deal, and 
the end of the letter ' n,' long and hasty." 

Mr. Guppy has been biting his thumb-nail during this dialogue, 
generally changing the thumb when he has changed the crossed leg. 
As he is going to do so again, he happens to look at his coat-sleeve. 
It takes his attention. He stares at it, aghast. 

" Why, Tony, what on earth is going on in this house to-night ? 
Is there a chimney on fire ? " 

" Chimney on fire ! " 

" Ah ! " returns Mr. Guppy. " See how the soot's falling. See 
here, on my arm ! See again, on the table here ! Confound the 
stufi", it won't blow off" — smears, like black fat ! " 

They look at one another, and Tony goes listening to the door, 

j! and a little way up-stairs, and a little way down-stairs. Comes back, 

and says it's all right, and all quiet ; and quotes the remark he 

lately made to Mr. Snagsby, about their cooking chops at the Sol's 

Arms. 

"And it was then," resumes Mr. Guppy, still glancing with 
remarkable aversion at his coat-sleeve, as they pursue their con- 
versation before the fire, leaning on opposite sides of the table with 

2is 



418 BLEAK HOUSE. 

their heads very near together, " that he told you of his having 
taken the bundle of letters from his lodger's portmanteau ? " 

" That was the time, sir," answers Tony, faintly adjusting his 
whiskers. " Whereupon I wrote a line to my dear boy, the Hon- 
ourable William Guppy, informing him of the appointment for 
to-night, and advising him not to call before : Boguey being a Sly- 
boots." 

The light vivacious tone of fashionable life which is usually 
assumed by Mr. Weevle, sits so ill upon him to-night, that he 
abandons that and his whiskers together ; and, after looking over 
his shoulder, appears to yield himself up, a prey to the horrors again. 

" You are to bring the letters to your room to read and com- 
pare, and to get yourself into a position to tell him all about them. 
That's the arrangement, isn't it, Tony?" asks Mr. Guppy, anxiously 
biting his thumb-nail. 

" You can't speak too low. Yes. That's what he and I agreed." 

" I tell you what, Tony " 

"You can't speak too low," says Tony once more. Mr. Guppy 
nods his sagacious head, advances it yet closer, and drops into a 
whisper. ^ 

" I tell you what. The first thing to be done is, to make i 
another packet, like the real one ; so that, if he should ask to see ; 
the real one while it's in my possession, you can show him the i 
dummy." 

" And suppose he detects the dummy as soon as he sees it — 
which with his biting screw of an eye is about five hundred times ; 
more likely than not," suggests Tony. 

" Then we'll face it out. They don't belong to him, and they 
never did. You found that ; and you placed them in my hands 
— a legal friend of yours — for security. If he forces us to it, 
they'll be producible, won't they ? " 

" Ye-es," is Mr. Weevle's reluctant admission. 

"Why, Tony," remonstrates his friend, "how you look ! You 
don't doubt William Guppy 1 You don't suspect any harm 1 " 

"I don't suspect anything more than I know, William," returns 
the other, gravely. 

"And what do you know?" urges Mr. Guppy, raising his voice 
a little ; but on his friend's once more warning him, " I tell you, 
you can't speak too low," he repeats his question without any sound 
at all ; forming with his lips only the words, " What do you 
know 1 " 

" I know three things. First, I know that here we are whisper- 
ing in secrecy; a pair of conspirators." 

" Well ! " says Mr. Guppy, "and we had better be that, than a 



BLEAK HOUSE. 419 

pair of noodles, which we should be, if we were doing anything else ; 
for it's the only way of doing what we want to do. Secondly ? " 

"Secondly, it's not made out to me how it's likely to be profit- 
able, after all." 

Mr. Guppy casts up his eyes at the portrait of Lady Dedlock 
over the mantel-shelf, and replies, " Tony, you are asked to leave 
that to the honour of your friend. Besides its being calculated to 
serve that friend, in those chords of the human mind which — 
which need not be called into agonising vibration on the present 
occasion — your friend is no fool. What's that 1 " 

" It's eleven o'clock striking by the bell of Saint Paul's. Lis- 
ten, and you'll hear all the bells in the city jangling." 

Both sit silent, listening to the metal voices, near and distant, 
resounding from towers of various heights, in tones more various 
than their situations. When these at length cease, all seems more 
mysterious and quiet than before. One disagreeable result of whis- 
pering is, that it seems to evoke an atmosphere of silence, haunted 
by the ghosts of sound — strange cracks and tickings, the rustling 
of garments that have no substance in them, and the tread of dread- 
ful feet, that would leave no mark on the sea-sand or the winter 
snow. So sensitive the two friends happen to be, that the air is 
full of these phantoms ; and the two look over their shoulders by 
one consent, to see that the door is shut. 

" Yes, Tony ? " says Mr. Guppy, drawing nearer to the fi.re, and 
biting his unsteady thumb-nail. " You were going to say, thirdly ?" 

" It's far from a pleasant thing to be plotting about a dead man 
in the room where he died, especially when you happen to live in it." 

"But we are plotting nothing against him, Tony." 

" May be not, still I don't like it. Live here by yourself, and see 
how 1/ou like it." 

"As to dead men, Tony," proceeds Mr. Guppy, evading this pro- 
posal, "there have been dead men in most rooms." 

" I know there have ; but in most rooms you let them alone, and 
— and they let you alone," Tony answers. 

The two look at each other again. Mr. Guppy makes a hurried 
remark to the effect that tliey may be doing the deceased a service ; 
that he hopes so. There is an oppressive blank, until Mr. Weevle, 
by stirring the fire suddenly, makes Mr. Guppy start as if his heart 
had been stirred instead. 

"Fah! Here's more of this hateful soot hanging about," says 
he. "Let us open the window a bit, and get a mouthful of air. 
It's too close." 

He raises the sash, and they both rest on the window-sill, half 
in and half out of the room. The neighbouring houses are too near, 



420 BLEAK HOUSE. 

to admit of their seeing any sky without craning their necks and 
looking up ; but lights in frowsy windows here and there, and the 
rolling of distant carriages, and the new expression that there is of 
the stir of men, they find to be comfortable. Mr. Guppy, noise- 
lessly tapping on the window-sill, resumes his whispering in quite 
a light-comedy tone. 

" By-the-bye, Tony, don't forget old Smallweed ; " meaning the 
Younger of that name. " I have not let him into this, you know. 
That grandfather of his is too keen by half It runs in the 
family." 

" I remember," says Tony. " I am up to all that." 

"And as to Krook," resumes Mr. Guppy. "Now, do you sup- 
pose he really has got hold of any other papers of importance, as 
he has boasted to you, since you have been such allies 1 " 

Tony shakes his head. " I don't know. Can't imagine. If 
we get through this business without rousing his suspicions, I shall 
be better informed no doubt. How can I know, without seeing 
them, when he don't know himself? He is always spelling out 
words from them, and chalking them over the table and the shop- 
wall, and asking what this is, and what that is ; but his whole 
stock, from beginning to end, may easily be the waste paper he 
bought it as, for anything I can say. It's a monomania with him, 
to think he is possessed of documents. He has been going to learn 
to read them this last quarter of a century, I should judge, from 
what he tells me." 

" How did he first come by that idea, though ? that's the ques- 
tion," Mr. Guppy suggests with one eye shut, after a little forensic 
meditation. " He may have found papers in something he bought, 
where papers were not supposed to be ; and may have got it into 
his shrewd head, from the manner and place of their concealment, 
that they are worth something." 

" Or he may have been taken in, in some pretended bargain. 
Or he may have been muddled altogether, by long staring at what- 
ever he has got, and by drink, and by hanging about the Lord 
Chancellor's court and hearing of documents for ever," returns 
Mr. Weevle. 

Mr. Guppy sitting on the window-sill, nodding his head and 
balancing all these possibilities in his mind, continues thoughtfully 
to tap it, and clasp it, and measure it with his hand, until he has- 
tily draws his hand away. 

"What, in the Devil's name," he says, "is this ! Look at my 
fingers ! " 

A thick, yellow liquor defiles them, which is offensive to the 
touch and sight, and more offensive to the smell. A stagnant, 



BLEAK HOUSE. 421 

sickening oil, with some natural repulsion in it that makes them 
both shudder. 

" What have you been doing here ? What have you been pour- 
ing out of window ? " 

" I pouring out of window ! Nothing, I swear ! Never, since I 
have been here ! " cries the lodger. 

And yet look here — and look here ! When he brings the candle, 
here, from the corner of the window-sill, it slowly drips and creeps 
away down the bricks ; here, lies in a little thick nauseous pool. 

" This is a horrible house," says Mr. Guppy. shutting down the 
window. " Give me some water, or I shall cut my hand off." 

He so washes, and rubs, and scrubs, and smells, and washes, 
that he has not long restored himself with a glass of brandy, and 
stood silently before the fire, when Saint Paul's bell strikes twelve, 
and all those other bells strike twelve from their towers of various 
heights in the dark air, and in their many tones. When all is 
quiet again, the lodger says : 

"It's the appointed time at last. Shall I go?" 

Mr. Guppy nods, and gives him a " lucky touch " on the back ; 
but not with the washed hand, though it is his right hand. 

He goes down-stairs ; and Mr. Guppy tries to compose himself, 
before the fire, for waiting a long time. But in no more than a 
minute or two the stairs creak, and Tony comes swiftly back. 

" Have you got them 1 " 

" Got them ! No. The old man's not there." 

He has been so horribly frightened in the short interval, that 
his teiTor seizes the other, who makes a rush at him, and asks 
loudly, " What's the matter ? " 

" I couldn't make him hear, and I softly opened the door and 
looked in. And the burning smell is there — and the soot is 
there, and the oil is there — and he is not there ! " — Tony ends 
this with a groan. 

Mr. Guppy takes the light. They go down, more dead than 
alive, and holding one another, push open the door of the back 
shop. The cat has retreated close to- it, and stands snarling — not 
at them ; at something on the ground, before the fire. There is 
very little fire left in the grate, but there is a smouldering sufibcat- 
ing vapour in the room, and a dark greasy coating on the walls 
and ceiling. The chairs and table, and the bottle so rarely absent 
from the table, all stand as usual. On one chair-back, hang the 
old man's hairy cap and coat. 

" Look ! " whispers the lodger, pointing his friend's attention to 
these objects with a trembling finger. " I told you so. When I 
saw him last, he took his cap off", took out the little bundle of old 



422 BLEAK HOUSE. 

letters, hung his cap on the back of the chair — his coat was there 
already, for he had pulled that off, before he went to put the shut- 
ters up — and I left him turning the letters over in his hand, 
standing just where that crumbled black thing is upon the floor." 

Is he hanging somewhere 1 They look up. No. 

" See ! " whispers Tony. " At the foot of the same chair, there 
lies a dirty bit of thin red cord that they tie up pens with. That 
went round the letters. He undid it slowly, leering and laughing 
at me, before he began to turn them over, and threw it there. I 
saw it fall." 

"What's the matter with the cat?" says Mr. Guppy. "Look 
at her ! " 

" Mad, I think. And no wonder, in this evil place." 

They advance slowly, looking at all these things. The cat 
remains where they found her, still snarling at the something on 
the ground, before the fire and between the two chairs. What is 
it ? Hold up the light. 

Here is a small burnt patch of flooring ; here is the tinder from 
a little bundle of burnt paper, but not so light as usual, seeming 
to be steeped in something; and here is — is it the cinder of a 
small charred and broken log of wood sprinkled with white ashes, 
or is it coal ? O Horror, he is here ! and this, from which we run 
away, striking out the light and overturning one another into the 
street, is all that represents him. 

HeljD, help, help ! come into this house for Heaven's sake ! 

Plenty will come in, but none can help. The Lord Chancellor 
of that Court, true to his title in his last act, has died the death 
of all Lord Chancellors in all Courts, and of all authorities in all 
places under all names soever, where false pretences are made, and 
where injustice is done. Call the death by any name Your High- 
ness will, attribute it to whom you will, or say it might have been 
prevented how you will, it is the same death eternally — inborn, 
inbred, engendered in the corrupted humours of the vicious body 
itself, and that only — Spontaneous Combustion, and none other 
of all the deaths that can be died. 



CHAPTER XXXIII. 

INTERLOPERS. 

Now do those two gentlemen not very neat about the cuffs and 
buttons who attended the last Coroner's Inquest at the Sol's Arms, 
reappear in the precincts with surprising swiftness (being, in fact, 
breathlessly fetched by the active and intelligent beadle), and in- 




THE APPOINTED TIME. 



424 BLEAK HOUSE. 

stitute perquisitions through the court, and. dive into the Sol's 
parlour, and write with ravenous little pens on tissue-paper. Now 
do they note down, in the watches of the night, how the neighbour- 
hood of Chanceiy Lane was yesterday, at about midnight, thrown 
into a state of the most intense agitation and excitement by the 
following alarming and horrible discovery. Now do they set forth 
how it will doubtless be remembered, that some time back a pain- 
ful sensation was created in the public mind, by a case of myste- 
rious death from opium occurring in the first floor of the house 
occupied as a rag, bottle, and general marine store shop, by an 
eccentric individual of intemperate habits, far advanced in life, 
named Krook ; and how, by a remarkable coincidence, Krook was 
examined at the Inquest, which it may be recollected was held on 
that occasion at the Sol's Arms, a well-conducted tavern, immedi- 
ately adjoining the premises in question, on the west side, and 
licensed to a highly respectable landlord, Mr. James George Bogsby. 
Now do they show (in as many words as possible), how during some 
hours of yesterday evening a very peculiar smell Avas observed by 
the inhabitants of the court, in which the tragical occurrence which 
forms the subject of that present account transpired; and which, 
odour was at one time so powerful, that Mr. Swills, a comic vocalist, ' 
professionally engaged by Mr. J. G. Bogsby, has himself stated to our 
reporter that he mentioned to Miss M. Melvilleson, a lady of some ■ 
pretensions to musical ability, likewise engaged by Mr. J. G. Bogsby 
to sing at a series of concerts called Harmonic Assemblies or Meet- 
ings, which it would appear are held at the Sol's Arms, under Mr. 
Bogsby's direction, pursuant to the Act of George the Second, that 
he (Mr. Swills) found his voice seriously affected by the impure 
state of the atmosphere ; his jocose expression, at the time, being, 
" that he was like an empty post-office, for he hadn't a single note 
in him." How this account of Mr. Swills is entirely corroborated 
by two intelligent married females residing in the same court, and 
known respectively by the names of Mrs. Piper and Mrs. Perkins ; 
both of whom observed the foetid effluvia, and regarded them as 
being emitted from the premises in the occupation of Krook, the 
unfortunate deceased. All this and a great deal more, the two 
gentlemen, who have formed an amicable partnership in the melan- 
choly catastrophe, write down on the spot ; and the boy iDOi^ulation 
of the court (out of bed in a moment) swarm up the shutters of 
the Sol's Arms jDarlour, to behold the tops of their heads while they 
are about it. 

The whole court, adult as well as boy, is sleepless for that night, 
and can do nothing but wi'ap up its many heads, and talk of the ill- 
fated house, and look at it. Miss Flite has been bravely rescued 



BLEAK HOUSE. 425 

from her chamber, as if it were in flames, and accommodated with 
a bed at the Sol's Arms. The Sol neither turns off its gas nor 
shuts its door, all night ; for any kind of public excitement makes 
good for the Sol, and causes the court to stand in need of comfort. 
The house has not done so much in the stomachic article of cloves, 
or in brandy and water warm, since the Inquest. The moment the 
, pot-boy heard what had happened, he rolled up his shirt-sleeves 
tight to his shoulders, and said, " There'll be a run upon us ! " In 
the first outcry. Young Piper dashed off for the fire-engines ; and 
returned in triumph at a jolting gallop, perched up aloft on the 
Phoenix, and holding on to that fabulous creature with all his 
might, in the midst of helmets and torches. One helmet remains 
behind, after careful investigation of all chinks and crannies ; and 
slowly paces up and down before the house, in company with one 
of-the two policemen who have been likewise left in charge thereof. 
To this trio, everybody in the court, possessed of sixpence, has an 
insatiate desire to exhibit hospitality in a liquid form. 

Mr. Weevle and his friend Mr. Guppy are within the bar at the 
Sol, and are worth anything to the Sol that the bar contains, if 
they will only stay there. " This is not a time," says Mr. Bogsby, 
" to haggle about money," though he looks something sharply after 
it, over the counter; "give your orders, you two gentlemen, and 
you're welcome to whatever you put a name to." 

Thus entreated, the two gentlemen (Mr. Weevle especially) put 
names to so many things, that in course of time they find it diffi- 
cult to put a name to anything quite distinctly ; though they still 
relate, to all new comers, some version of the night they have had 
of it, and of what they said, and what they thought, and what 
they saw. Meanwhile, one or other of the policemen often flits 
about the door, and pushing it open a little way at the full length 
'i of his arm, looks in from outer gloom. Not that he has any sus- 
; picions, but that he may as well know what they are up to, in 
1 there. 

Thus, night pursues its leaden course ; finding the court still out 
I of bed through the unwonted hours, still treating and being treated, 
*■ still conducting itself similarly to a court that has had a little 
1 money left it unexpectedly. Thus, night at length with slow- 
retreating steps departs, and the lamplighter going his rounds, like 
'I an executioner to a despotic king, strikes off the little heads of fire 
that have aspired to lessen the darkness. Thus, the day cometh, 
whether or no. 

And the day may discern, even with its dim London eye, that 
the court has been up all night. Over and above the faces that 
have fallen drowsily on tables, and the heels that lie prone on hard 



426 BLEAK HOUSE. 

floors instead of beds, the brick aud mortar physiognomy of the 
very court itself looks worn and jaded. And now the neighbour- 
hood waking up, and beginning to hear of what has happened, 
comes streaming in, half-dressed, to ask questions ; and the two 
policemen and the helmet (who are far less impressible externally 
than the court) have enough to do to keep the door. 

" Good gracious, gentlemen ! " says Mr. Snagsby, coming up. 
" What's this I hear ! " 

"Why, it's true," returns one of the policemen. "That's what 
it is. Now move on here, come ! " 

"Why, good gracious, gentlemen," says Mr. Snagsby, somewhat 
promptly backed away, " I was at this door last night betwixt ten 
and eleven o'clock, in conversation with the young man who lodges 
here." 

" Indeed 1 " returns the policeman. " You will find the young 
man next door then. Now move on here, some of you." 

" Not hurt, I hope ? " says Mr. Snagsby. 

" Hurt 1 No. What's to hurt him ! " 

Mr. Snagsby, wholly unable to answer this, or any other ques- 
tion, in his troubled mind, repairs to the Sol's Arms, and finds 
Mr. Weevle languishing over tea and toast ; with a considerable 
expression on him of exhausted excitement, and exhausted tobacco- 
smoke. 

" And Mr. Guppy likewise ! " quoth Mr. Snagsby. " Dear, 
dear, dear ! What a Fate there seems in all this ! And my lit — " 

Mr. Snagsb/s power of speech deserts him in the formation of 
the words "my little woman." For, to see that injured female 
walk into the Sol's Arms at that hour of the morning and stand 
before the beer-engine, with her eyes fixed upon him like an accus- 
ing spirit, strikes him dumb. 

"My dear," says Mr. Snagsby, when his ^"ongue is loosened, 
" will you take anything ? A little — not to put too fine a point 
upon it — drop of shrub ? " 

"No," says Mrs. Snagsby. 

" My love, you know these two gentlemen ? " 

"Yes ! " says Mrs. Snagsby; and in a rigid manner acknowledges 
their presence, still fixing Mr. Snagsby with her eye. 

The devoted Mr. Snagsby cannot bear this treatment. He 
takes Mrs. Snagsby by the hand, and leads her aside to an ad- 
jacent cask. 

" My little woman, why do you look at me in that way 1 Pray 
don't do it." 

"I can't help my looks," says Mrs. Snagsby, "and if I could I 
wouldn't." I 



BLEAK HOUSE. 427 

Mr. Snagsby, with his cough of lu^okuess, rejoins, — " Wouldn't 
you really, my dear ? " and meditates. Then coughs his cough of 
trouble, and says, " This is a dreadful mystery, my love ! " still 
fearfully disconcerted by Mrs. Snagsby's eye. 

"It is," returns Mrs. Snagsby, shaking her head, "a dreadful 
mystery." 

"My little woman," urges Mr. Snagsby, in a piteous manner, 
" don't, for goodness' sake, speak to me with that bitter expression, 
and look at me in that searching way ! I beg and entreat of you 
not to do it. Good Lord, you don't suppose that I would go 
spontaneously combusting any person, my dear ? " 

"I can't say," returns Mrs. Snagsby. 

On a hasty review of his unfortunate position, Mr. Snagsby " can't 
say," either. He is not prepared positively to deny that he may 
have had something to do with it. He has had something — he 
don't know what — to do with so much in this connection that is 
mysterious, that it is possible he may even be implicated, without 
knowing it, in the present transaction. He faintly wipes his fore- 
head with his handkerchief, and gasps. 

"My life," says the unhappy stationer, "would you have any 
objections to mention why, being in general so delicately circumspect 
in your conduct, you come into a Wine Vaults before breakfast 1 " 

" Why do you come here ? " inquires Mrs. Snagsby. 

" My dear, merely to know the rights of the fatal accident which 
has happened to the venerable party who has been — combusted." 
Mr. Snagsby has made a pause to suppress a groan. " I should 
then have related them to you, my love, over your French roll." 

" I dare say you would ! You relate everything to me, Mr. 

• Snagsby." 

" Every— my lit— ? " 

" I should be glad," says Mrs. Snagsby, after contemplating his 
increased confusion with a severe and sinister smile, "if you would 
■ come home with me ; I think you may be safer there, Mr. Snagsby, 
than anywhere else." 

" My love, I don't know but what I may be, I am sure. I am 
< ready to go." 

Mr. Snagsby casts his eyes forlornly round the bar, gives Messrs. 
Weevle and Guppy good morning, assures them of the satisfaction 

* with which he sees them uninjured, and accompanies Mrs. Snagsby 
from the Sol's Arms. Before night, his doubt whether he may not 

? be responsible for some inconceivable part in the catastrophe which 
is the talk of the whole neighbourhood, is almost resolved into cer- 

1 tainty by Mrs. Snagsby's pertinacity in that fixed gaze. His mental 
sufierings are so great, that he entertains wandering ideas of deliv- 



428 BLEAK HOUSE. 

ering himself up to justice, and requiring to be cleared, if innocent, 
and punished with the utmost rigour of the law, if guilty. 

Mr. Weevle and Mr. Guppy, having taken their breakfast, step 
into Lincoln's Inn to take a little walk about the square, and clear 
as many of the dark cobwebs out of their brains as a little walk may. 

" There can be no more favourable time than the present, Tony," 
says Mr. Guppy, after they have broodingly made out the four 
sides of the square, "for a word or two between us, upon a point 
on which we must, with very little delay, come to an understanding." 

" Now, I tell you what, William G-. ! " returns the other, eyeing 
his companion with a bloodshot eye. " If it's a point of conspiracy, 
you needn't take the trouble to mention it. I have had enough of 
that, and I ain't going to have any more. We shall have i/ou tak- 
ing fire next, or blowing up with a bang." 

This supposititious phenomenon is so very disagreeable to Mr, 
Guppy that his voice quakes, as he says in a moral way, " Tony, I 
should have thought that what we went through last night, would 
have been a lesson to you never to be personal any more as long as 
you lived." To which Mr. Weevle returns, "William, I should 
have thought it would have been a lesson to t/ou never to conspirei 
any more as long as you lived." To which Mr. Guppy says,] 
"Who's conspiring?" To which Mr. Jobling replies, "Why, i/ou 
are ! " To which Mr. Guppy retorts, " No, I am not." To which 
Mr. Jobling retorts again, " Yes, you are ! " To which Mr. Guppy. 
retorts, " Who says so ? " To which Mr. Jobling retorts, " / sayj 
so ! " To which Mr. Guppy retorts, " Oh, indeed ? " To whicm 
Mr. Jobling retorts, " Yes, indeed ! " And both being now in al 
heated state, they walk on silently for a while, to cool down again. 

"Tony," says Mr. Guppy, then, "if you heard your friend out,, 
instead of flying at him, you wouldn't fall into mistakes. But your 
temper is hasty, and you are not considerate. Possessing in your- 
self, Tony, all that is calculated to charm the eye " 

" Oh ! Blow the eye ! " cries Mr. Weevle, cutting him short.- 
" Say what you have got to say ! " 

Finding his friend in this morose and material condition, Mr. 
Guppy only expresses the finer feelings of his soul through the tone 
of injury in which he recommences : 

" Tony, when I say there is a point on which we must come to 
an understanding pretty soon, I say so quite apart fi'om any kind 
of conspiring, however innocent. You know it is professionally 
arranged beforehand, in all cases that are tried, what facts the 
witnesses are to prove. Is it, or is it not, desirable that we 
should know what facts we are to prove, on the inquiry into the 
death of this unfortunate old Mo gentleman 1 " (Mr. Guppy 



BLEAK HOUSE. 429 

was going to say, Mogul, but thinks gentleman better suited to the 
circumstances.) 

"What facts? The facts." 

" The facts bearing on that inquiry. Those are — " Mr. Guppy 
tells them off on his fingers — " what we knew of his habits ; when 
you saw him last ; what his condition was then ; the discovery 
that we made, and how we made it." 

"Yes," says Mr. Weevle. "Those are about the facts." 

" We made the discovery, in consequence of his having, in his 
eccentric way, an appointment with you for twelve o'clock at night, 
when you were to explain some writing to him, as you had often 
done before, on account of his not being able to read. I, spending 
the evening with you, was called down — and so forth. The in- 
quiry being only into the circumstances touching the death of the 
deceased, it's not necessary to go beyond these facts, I suppose 
you'll agree % " 

"No !" returns Mr. Weevle. "I suppose not." 

"And this is not a conspiracy, perhaps?" says the injured 
Guppy. 

"No," returns his friend; "if it's nothing worse than this, I 
withdraw the observation." 

"Now, Tony," says Mr. Guppy, taking his arm again, and 
walking him slowly on, "I should like to know, in a friendly way, 
whether you have yet thought over the many advantages of your 
continuing to live at that place ? " 

" What do you mean ? " says Tony, stopping. 

" Whether you have yet thought over the many advantages of 
your continuing to live at that place ? " repeats Mr. Guppy, walk- 
ing him on again. 

" At what place ? That place ? " pointing in the direction of 
the rag and bottle shop. 

Mr. Guppy nods. 

" Why, I wouldn't pass another night there, for any consider- 
ation that you could offer me," says Mr. Weevle, haggardly staring. 

" Do you mean it though, Tony ? " 

" Mean it ! Do I look as if I mean it ? I feel as if I do ; I 
know that," says Mr. Weevle, with a very genuine shudder. 

" Then the possibility, or probability — for such it must be 
considered — of your never being disturbed in possession of those 
effects, lately belonging to a lone old man who seemed to have no 
relation in the world ; and the certainty of your being able to 
find out what he really had got stored up there ; don't weigh with 
you at all against last night, Tony, if I understand you?" says 
Mr. Guppy, biting his thumb with the appetite of vexation. 



430 BLEAK HOUSE. 

" Certainly not. Talk in that cool way of a fellow's living 
there?" cries Mr. Weevle, indignantly. "Go and live there 
yourself." 

" ! I, Tony ! " says Mr. Guppy, soothing him. " I have never 
lived there, and couldn't get a lodging there now ; whereas you 
have got one." 

"You are welcome to it," rejoins his friend, "and- — ugh! — 
you may make yourself at home in it." 

"Then you really and truly at this point," says Mr. Guppy, 
" give up the whole thing, if I understand you, Tony ? " 

"You never," returns Tony, with a most convincing steadfast- 
ness, " said a truer word in all your life. I do ! " 

While they are so conversing, a hackney-coach drives into the 
square, on the box of which vehicle a very tall hat makes itself 
manifest to the public. Inside the coach, and consequently not 
so manifest to the multitude, though sufficiently so to the two 
friends, for the coach stops almost at their feet, are the venerable 
Mr. Smallweed and Mrs. Smallweed, accompanied by their grand- 
daughter Judy. An air of haste and excitement pervades the 
party ; and as the tall hat (surmounting Mr. Smallweed the 
younger) alights, Mr. Smallweed the elder pokes his head out 
of window, and bawls to Mr. Guppy, "How de do, sir ! How de 
do!" 

" What do Chick and his family want here at this time of the 
morning, I wonder ! " says Mr. Guppy, nodding to his fa- 
miliar. 

"My dear sir," cries Grandfather Smallweed, "would you do 
me a favour 1 Would you and your friend be so very obleeging as 
to carry me into the public -house in the court, while Bart and his 
sister bring their grandmother along ? Would you do an old man 
that good turn, sir ? " 

Mr. Guppy looks at his friend, repeating inquiringly, "the 
public-house in the court 1 " And they prepare to bear the vener- 
able burden to the Sol's Arms. 

" There's your fare ! " says the Patriarch to the coachman with 
a fierce grin, and shaking his incapable fist at him. " Ask me for 
a penny more, and I'll have my lawful revenge upon you. My 
dear young men, be easy with me, if you please. Allow me to 
catch you round the neck. I won't squeeze you tighter than I 
can help. Lord ! dear me ! my bones ! " 

It is well that the Sol is not far off", for Mr. Weevle presents 
an apoplectic appearance before half the distance is accomplished. 
With no worse aggravation of his symptoms, however, than the 
utterance of divers croaking sounds, expressive of obstructed respi- 



BLEAK HOUSE. 431 

ration, he fulfils his share of the porterage, and the benevolent old 
gentleman is deposited by his own desire in the parlour of the 
Sol's Arms. 

" O Lord ! " gasps Mr. Smallweed, looking about him, breath- 
less, from an arm-chair. " dear me ! my bones and back ! 
my aches and pains ! Sit down, you dancing, prancing, sham- 
bling, scrambling poll parrot ! Sit down ! " 

This httle apostrophe to Mrs. Smallweed is occasioned by a pro- 
pensity on the part of that unlucky old lady, whenever she finds 
herself on her feet, to amble about, and " set " to inanimate objects, 
accompanying herself with a chattering noise, as in a witch dance. 
A nervous aff"ection has probably as much to do with these demon- 
strations, as any imbecile intention in the poor old woman ; but 
on the present occasion they are so particularly lively in connection 
with the Windsor arm-chair, fellow to that in which Mr. Small- 
weed is seated, that she only quite desists when her grandchildren 
have held her down in it : her lord in the meanwhile bestowing 
upon her, with great volubility, the endearing epithet of " a pig- 
headed Jackdaw," repeated a sui'prising number of times. 

"My dear sir," Grandfather Smallweed then proceeds, address- 
ing Mr. Guppy, "there has been a calamity here. Have you 
heard of it, either of you 1 " 

" Heard of it, sir ! Why we discovered it." 

" You discovered it. You two discovered it ! Bart, they dis- 
covered it ! " 

The two discoverers stare at the Small weeds, who return the 
compliment. 

" My dear friends," whines Grandfather Smallweed, putting out 
both his hands, " I owe you a thousand thanks for discharging the 
melancholy office of discovering the ashes of Mrs. Smallweed's 
brother." 

" Eh ? " says Mr. Guppy. 

" Mrs. Smallweed's brother, my dear friend — her only relation. 
We were not on terms, which is to be deplored now, but he never 
would be on terms. He was not fond of us. He was eccentric 
— he was very eccentric. Unless he has left a will (which is not 
at all likely) I shall take out letters of administration. I have 
come down to look after the property ; it must be sealed up, it 
must be pi'otected. I have come down," repeats Grandfather 
Smallweed, hooking the air towards him with all his ten fingers 
at once, " to look after the property." 

" I think. Small," says the disconsolate Mr. Guppy, "you might 
have mentioned that the old man was your uncle." 

" You two were so close about him that I thought you would 



432 BLEAK HOUSE. 

like me to be the same," returns that old bird, with a secretly glis- 
tening eye. " Besides, I wasn't proud of him." 

" Besides which, it was nothing to you, you know, whether he 
was or not," says Judy. Also with a secretly glistening eye. 

"He never saw me in his life, to know me," observed Small; 
" I don't know why I should introduce him, I am sure I " 

" No, he never communicated with us — which is to be de- 
plored," the old gentleman strikes in ; " but I have come to look 
after the property — to look over the papers, and to look after 
the property. We shall make good our title. It is in the hands 
of my solicitor. Mr. Tulkinghorn, of Lincoln's Inn Fields, over 
the way there, is so good as to act as my solicitor ; and grass 
don't grow under hu feet, I can tell ye. Krook was Mrs. Small- 
weed's only brother ; she had no relation but Krook, and Krook had 
no relation but Mrs. Smallweed. I am speaking of your brother, 
you brimstone black-beetle, that was seventy-six years of age." 

Mrs. Smallweed instantly begins to shake her head, and pipe 
up, " Seventy-six pound seven and sevenpence ! Seventy-six thou- 
sand bags of money ! Seventy-six hundred thousand million of 
parcels of bank notes ! " 

" Will somebody give me a quart pot 1 " exclaims her exasper- 
ated husband, looking helplessly about him, and finding no missile 
within his reach. "Will somebody obleege me with a spittoon? 
Will somebody hand me anything hard and bruising to pelt at 
her ? You hag, you cat, you dog, you brimstone barker ! " Here 
Mr. Smallweed, wrought up to the highest pitch by his own elo- 
quence, actually throws Judy at her grandmother in default of 
anything else, by butting that young virgin at the old lady with 
such force as he can muster, and then dropping into his chair in a 
heap. 

"Shake me up, somebody, if you'll be so good," says the voice 
from within the faintly struggling bundle into which he has col- 
lapsed. " I have come to look after the property. Shake me up ; 
and call in the police on duty at the next house, to be explained to 
about the property. My solicitor will be here presently to protect 
the property. Transportation or the gallows for anybody who shall 
touch the property ! " As his dutiful grandchildren set him up, 
panting, and put him through the usual restorative process of 
shaking and punching, he still repeats like an echo, "the — the 
property ! The property ! — property ! " 

Mr. Weevle and Mr. Guppy look at each other ; the former as 
having relinquished the whole affair ; the latter with a discomfited 
countenance, as having entertained some lingering expectations yet. 
But there is nothing to be done in opposition to the Smallweed in- 



BLEAK HOUSE. 433 

terest. Mr. Tulkinghorn's clerk conies down from his official pew 
in the chambers, to mention to the police that Mr. Tulkinghorn is 
answerable for its being all correct about the next of kin, and that 
the papers and effects will be formally taken possession of in due 
time and course. Mr. Smallweed is at once permitted so far to 
assert his supremacy as to be carried on a visit of sentiment into 
the next house, and up-stairs into Miss Flite's deserted room, where 
he looks like a hideous bird of prey newly added to her aviary. 

The arrival of this unexpected heir soon taking wind in the 
court, still makes good for the Sol, and keeps the court upon its 
mettle. Mrs. Piper and Mrs. Perkins think it hard upon the 
young man if there really is no will, and consider that a handsome 
present ought to be made him out of the estate. Young Piper 
and Young Perkins, as members of that restless juvenile circle 
which is the terror of the foot-passengers in Chancery Lane, crum- 
ble into ashes behind the pump and under the archway, all day 
long ; where wild yells and hootings take place over their remains. 
Little Swills and Miss M. Melvilleson enter into affable conver- 
sation with their patrons, feeling that these unusual occurrences 
level the barriers between professionals and non-professionals. Mr. 
Bogsby puts up " The popular song of King Death ! with chorus 
by the whole strength of the company," as the great Harmonic 
feature of the week ; and announces in the bill that " J. G. B. is 
induced to do so at a considerable extra expense, in consequence of 
a wish which has been very generally expressed at the bar by a 
large body of respectable individuals and in homage to a late mel- 
ancholy event which has aroused so much sensation." There is 
one point connected with the deceased, upon which the court is 
particularly anxious ; namely, that the fiction of a full-sized coffin 
should be preserved, though there is so little to put in it. Upon 
the undertaker's stating in the Sol's bar in the course of the day, 
that he has received orders to construct " a six-footer," the general 
solicitude is much relieved, and it is considered that Mr. Small- 
weed's conduct does him great honour. 

Out of the court, and a long way out of it, there is considerable 
excitement too ; for men of science and philosophy come to look, 
and carriages set down doctors at the corner who arrive with the 
same intent, and there is more learned talk about inflammable 
gases and phosphuretted hydrogen than the court has ever im- 
agined. Some of these authorities (of course the wisest) hold with 
indignation that the deceased had no business to die in the alleged 
manner ; and being reminded by other authorities of a certain 
inquiry into the evidence for such deaths, reprinted in the sixth 
volume of the Philosophical Transactions ; and also of a book not 



434 BLEAK HOUSE, 

quite unknown, on English Medical Jurisprudence ; and likewise 
of the Italian case of the Countess Cornelia Baudi as set forth in 
detail by one Bianchini, prebendary of Verona, who wrote a schol- 
arly work or so, and was occasionally heard of in his time as hav- 
ing gleams of reason in him ; and also of the testimony of Messrs. 
Fodert^ and Mere, two pestilent Frenchmen who would investigate 
the subject ; and further, of the corroborative testimony of Mon- 
sieur Le Cat, a rather celebrated French surgeon once upon a time, 
who had the unpoliteness to live in a house where such a case 
occurred, and even to write an account of it ; — still they regard 
the late Mr. Krook's obstinacy, in going out of the world by any 
such byeway, as wholly unjustifiable and personally offensive. The 
less the court understands of all this, the more the court likes it ; 
and the greater enjoyment it has in the stock in trade of the Sol's 
Arms. Then, there comes the artist of a picture newspaper, with 
a foreground and figures ready drawn for anything, from a wreck on 
the Cornish coast to a review in Hyde Park, or a meeting at Man- 
chester, — and in Mrs. Perkins's own room, memorable evermore, 
he then and there throws in upon the block, Mr. Krook's house, as ; 
large as life ; in fact, considerably larger, making a very Temple of ■ 
it. Similarly, being permitted to look in at the door of the fatal 
chamber, he depicts that apartment as three quarters of a mile 
long, by fifty yards high ; at which the court is particularly 
charmed. All this time, the two gentlemen before mentioned pop 
in and out of every house, and assist at the philosophical disputa- 
tions, — go everywhere, and listen to everybody, — and yet are 
always diving into the Sol's parlour, and writing with the ravenous 
little pens on the tissue-paper. 

At last come the Coroner and his inquiry, like as before, except 
that the Coroner cherishes this case as being out of the common 
way, and tells the gentlemen of the Jury, in his private capacity, 
that " that would seem to be an unlucky house next door, gentle- 
men, a destined house ; but so we sometimes find it, and these are 
mysteries we can't account for ! " After which the six-footer comes 
into action, and is much admired. 

In all these proceedings Mr. G-uppy has so slight a part, except 
when he gives his evidence, that he is moved on like a private indi- 
vidual, and can only haunt the secret house on the outside ; where 
he has the mortification of seeing Mr. Smallweed padlocking the 
door, and of bitterly knowing himself to be shut out. But before 
these proceedings draw to a close, that is to say, on the night next 
after the catastrophe, Mr. G-uppy has a thing to say that must be 
said to Lady Dedlock. 

For which reason, with a sinking heart, and with that hangdog 



BLEAK HOUSE. 435 

sense of guilt upon him, which dread and watching, enfolded in the 
Sol's Arms, have produced, the young man of the name of Guppy 
presents himself at the town mansion at about seven o'clock in the 
evening, and requests to see her ladyship. Mercuiy replies that 
she is going out to dinner ; don't he see the carriage at the door ? 
Yes, he does see the carriage at the door ; but he wants to see my 
Lady too. 

Mercury is disposed, as he will presently declare to a fellow 
gentleman in waiting, " to pitch into the young man ; " but his 
instructions are positive. Therefore he sulkily supposes that the 
young man must come up into the library. There he leaves the 
young man in a large room, not over-light, while he makes report 
of him. 

Mr. Guppy looks into the shade in all directions, discovering 
everywhere a certain charred and whitened little heap of coal or 
wood. Presently he hears a rustling. Is it — 1 No, it's no 
ghost ; but fair flesh and blood, most brilliantly dressed. 

" I have to beg your ladyship's pardon," Mr. Guppy stammers, 
very downcast. " This is an inconvenient time " 

"I told you, you could come at any time." She takes a chair, 
looking straight at him as on the last occasion. 

"Thank your ladyship. Your ladyship is very affable." 

"You can sit down." There is not much affability in her tone. 

" I don't know, your ladyship, that it's worth while my sitting 
down and detaining you, for I — I have not got the letters that I 
mentioned when I had the honour of waiting on your ladyship." 

" Have you come merely to say so ? " 

"Merely to say so, your ladyship." Mr. Guppy, besides being 
depressed, disappointed, and uneasy, is put at a further disadvan- 
tage by the splendour and beauty of her appearance. She knows 
its influence perfectly ; has studied it too well to miss a grain of 
its effect on any one. As she looks at him so steadily and coldly, 
he not only feels conscious that he has no guide, in the least per- 
! ception of what is really the complexion of her thoughts ; but also 
that he is being every moment, as it were, removed further and 
further from her. 

She will not speak, it is plain. So he must. 

" In short, your ladyship," says Mr. Guppy, like a meanly pen- 
itent thief, " the person I was to have had the letters of, has come 

vfco a sudden end, and -" He stops. Lady Dedlock calmly 

'finishes the sentence. 

I " And the letters are destroyed with the person 1 " 

Mr. Guppy would say no, if he could — as he is unable to hide. 

"I believe so, your ladyship." 



436 BLEAK HOUSE. 

If he could see the least sparkle of relief in her face now 1 No, 
he could see no such thing, even if that brave outside did not ut- 
terly put him away, and he were not looking beyond it and about it. 

He falters an awkward excuse or two for his failure. 

" Is this all you have to say ? " inquires Lady Dedlock, having 
heard him out — or as nearly out as he can stumble. 

Mr. Guppy thinks that's aU. 

" You had better be sure that you wish to say nothing more to 
me; this being the last time you will have the opportunity." 

Mr. Guppy is quite sure. And indeed he has no such wish at 
present, by any means. 

" That is enough. I will dispense with excuses. Good evening 
to you ! " and she rings for Mercuiy to show the young man of the 
name of Guppy out. 

But in that house, in that same moment, there happens to be an 
old man of the name of Tulkinghorn. And that old man, coming 
with his quiet footstep to the libraiy, has his hand at that moment 
on the handle of the door — comes in — and comes face to face 
with the young man as he is leaving the room. 

One glance between the old man and the lady ; and for an instant 
the blind that is always down flies up. Suspicion, eager and sharp, 
looks out. Another instant ; close again. 

" I beg your pardon, Lady Dedlock. I beg your pardon a thou- 
sand times. It is so very unusual to find you here at this hour. 
I supposed the room was empty. I beg your pardon ! " 

" Stay ! " She negligently calls him back. " Remain here, I 
beg. I am going out to dinner. I have nothing more to say to 
this young man ! " 

The disconcerted young man bows, as he goes out, and cringingly j 
hopes that Mr. Tulkinghorn of the Fields is well. 

"Aye, aye?" says the lawyer, looking at him from under his i 
bent brows ; though he has no need to look again — not he. 
" From Kenge and Carboy's, surely 1 " 

" Kenge and Carboy's, Mr. Tulkinghorn. Name of Guppy, sir." 

"To be sure. Why, thank you, Mr. Guppy, I am very weU ! 

" Happy to hear it, sir. You can't be too well, sir, for the 
credit of the profession." 

" Thank you, Mr. Guppy ! " 

Mr. Guppy sneaks away. Mr. Tulkinghorn, such a foil in his 
old-fashioned rusty black to Lady Dedlock's brightness, hands her 
down the staircase to her carriage. He returns rubbing his chin, 
and rubs it a good deal in the course of the evening. 




THE OLD MAN OF THE NAME OF TULKINGHORN. 



438 BLEAK HOUSE. 

CHAPTER XXXIV. 

A TURN OF THE SCREW. 

"Now, what," says Mr. George, "may this be? Is it blank 
cartridge, or ball ? A flash in the pan, or a shot ? " 

An open letter is the subject of the trooper's speculations, and it 
seems to perplex him mightily. He looks at it at arm's length, 
brings it close to him, holds it in his right hand, holds it in his 
left hand, reads it with his head on this side, with his head on that 
side, contracts his eyebrows, elevates them ; still, cannot satisfy 
himself. He smooths it out upon the table with his heavy palm, 
and thoughtfidly walking up and down the gallery, makes a halt 
before it every now and then, to come upon it with a fresh eye. 
Even that won't do. "Is it," Mr. G-eorge still muses, "blank 
cartridge or ball ? " 

Phil Squod, with the aid of a brush and paint-pot, is employed 
in the distance whitening the targets ; softly whistling, in quick- 
march time, and in drum-and-fife manner, that he must and he will 
go back again to the girl he left behind him. 

" Phil ! " The trooper beckons as he calls him. 

Phil approaches in his usual way ; sidling off at first as if he 
were going anywhere else, and then bearing down upon his com- 
mander like a bayonet-charge. Certain splashes of white show in 
high relief upon his dirty face, and he scrapes his one eyebrow 
with the handle of his brush. 

" Attention, Phil ! Listen to this." 

" Steady, commander, steady." 

" ' Sir. Allow me to remind jon (though there is no legal 
necessity for my doing so, as you are aware) that the bill at two 
months' date, drawn on yourself by Mr. Matthew Bagnet, and by 
you accepted, for the sum of ninety-seven pounds four shillings and 
ninepence, will become due to-morrow, when you will please be 
prepared to take up the same on presentation. Yours, Joshua 
Small WEED.' — What do you make of that, Phil ? " 

"Mischief, guv'ner." i 

"Why?" 

"I think," replies Phil, after pensively tracing out a cross- 
wrinkle in his forehead with the brush-handle, "that mischeevious 
consequences is always meant when money's asked for." 

"Lookye, Phil," says the trooper, sitting on the table. "First 
and last, I have paid, I may say, half as much again as this 
principal, in interest and one thing and another." 

Phil intimates, by sidling back a pace or two, with a very un- 



BLEAK HOUSE. 439 

accountable wrench of his wry face, that he does not regard the 
transaction as being made more promising by this incident. 

"And lookye further, Pliil," says the trooper, staying his pre- 
mature conckisions with a wave of his hand. " There has always 
been an understanding that this bill was to be what they caU Re- 
newed. And it has been renewed, no end of times. What do you 
say now ? " 

"I say that I think the times is come to a end at last." 

"You do ? Humph ! I am much of the same mind myself." 

"Joshua Small weed is him that was brought here in a chair?" 

"The same." 

"Guv'ner," says Phil, with exceeding gravity, "he's a leech in 
his dispositions, he's a screw and a wice in his actions, a snake in 
his twistings, and a lobster in his claws." 

Having thus expressively uttered his sentiments, Mr. Squod, after 
waiting a little to ascertain if any further remark be expected of 
him, gets back, by his usual series of movements, to the target he 
has in hand ; and vigorously signifies, through his former musical 
medium, that he must and he will return to that ideal young lady. 
George having folded the letter walks in that direction. 

" There is a way, commander," says Phil, looking cunningly at 
him, "of settling this." 

" Paying the money, I suppose? I wish I could." 

Phil shakes his head. " No, guv'ner, no ; not so bad as that. 
There is a way," says Phil, with a highly artistic turn of his 
brush — " what I'm a doing at present." 

"Whitewashing?" 

Phil nods. 

" A pretty way that would be ! Do you know what would be- 
come of the Bagnets in that case ? Do you know they would be 
ruined to pay off my old scores? You're a moral character," says 
the trooper, eyeing him in his large way with no small indignation, 
" upon my life you are, Phil ! " 

Phil, on one knee at the target, is in course of protesting ear- 
nestly, though not without many allegorical scoops of his brush, 
and smoothings of the white surface round the rim with his thumb, 
that he had forgotten the Bagnet responsibility, and would not so 
much as injure a hair of the head of any member of that worthy 
family, when steps are audible in the long passage without, and a 
cheerful voice is heard to wonder whether George is at home. 
Phil, with a look at his master, hobbles up, saying, " Here's the 
guv'ner, Mrs. Bagnet ! Here he is ! " and the old girl herself, 
accompanied by Mr. Bagnet, appears. 

The old girl never appears in walking trim, in any season of the 



440 BLEAK HOUSE. 

year, without a grey cloth cloak, coarse and much worn but very 
clean, which is, undoubtedly, the identical garment rendered so in- 
teresting to Mr. Bagnet by having made its way home to Europe 
from another quarter of the globe, in company with Mrs. Bagnet and 
an umbrella. The latter faithful appendage is also invariably a part 
of the old girl's presence out of doors. It is of no colour known in 
this life, and has a corrugated wooden crook for a handle, with a 
metallic object let into its prow or beak, resembling a little model 
of a fan-light over a street door, or one of the oval glasses out of a 
pair of spectacles : which ornamental object has not that tenacious 
capacity of sticking to its post that might be desired in an article 
long associated with the British army. The old girl's umbrella is 
of a flabby habit of waist, and seems to be in need of stays — an 
appearance that is possibly referable to its having served, through 
a series of years, at home as a cupboard, and on journeys as a car- 
pet bag. She never puts it up, having the greatest reliance on her 
well-proved cloak with its capacious hood ; but generally uses the 
instrument as a wand with which to point out joints of meat or 
bunches of greens in marketing, or to arrest the attention of trades- 
men by a friendly poke. Without her market-basket, which is a 
sort of wicker well mth two flapping lids, she never stirs abroad. 
Attended by these her trusty companions, therefore, her honest sun- 
burnt face looking cheerily out of a rough straw bonnet, Mrs. 
Bagnet now arrives, fresh-coloured and bright, in George's Shooting 
Gallery. 

"Well, George, old fellow," says she, "and how do you do, this 
sunshiny morning ? " 

Giving him a friendly shake of the hand, Mrs. Bagnet draws a 
long breath after her walk, and sits down to enjoy a fest. Having 
a faculty, matured on the tops of baggage-waggons, and in other 
such positions, of resting easily anywhere, she perches on a rough 
bench, unties her bonnet-strings, pushes back her bonnet, crosses 
her arms, and looks perfectly comfortable. 

Mr. Bagnet, in the mean time, has shaken hands with his old 
comrade, and with Phil : on whom Mrs. Bagnet likewise bestows a 
good-humoured nod and smile. 

"Now, George," says Mrs. Bagnet, briskly, "here we are, 
Lignum and myself ; " she often speaks of her husband by this 
appellation, on account, as it is supposed, of Lignum Vitse having 
been his old regimental nickname when they first became ac- 
quainted, in compliment to the extreme hardness and toughness of' 
his physiognomy; "just looked in, we have, to make it all correct' 
as usual about that security. Give him the new bill to sign, 
George, and he'll sign it like a man." ;. 



BLEAK HOUSE. 441 

"I was coming to you this morning," observes the trooper, 
rehictantly. 

" Yes, we thought you'd come to us this morning, but we turned 
out early, and left Woolwich, the best of boys, to mind his sisters, 
and came to you instead — as you see ! For Lignum, he's tied so 
close now, and gets so little exercise, that a walk does him good. 
But wliat's the matter, George ? " asks Mrs. Bagnet, stopi^ing in 
lier cheerful talk. "You don't look yourself." 

"I am not quite myself," returns the trooper; "I have been a 
little put out, Mrs. Bagnet." 

Her quick bright eye catches the truth directly. " George ! " 
holding up her forefinger. "Don't tell me there's anything wrong 
about that security of Lignum's ! Don't do it, George, on account 
of the children ! " 

The trooper looks at her with a troubled visage. 

"George," says Mrs. Bagnet, using both her arms for emphasis, 
and occasionally bringing down her open hands upon her knees. 
" If you have allowed anything wrong to come to that security of 
Lignum's, and if you have let him in for it, and if you have put us 
in danger of being sold up — and I see sold up in your face, George, 
as plain as print — you have done a shameful action, and have 
deceived us cruelly. I tell you, cruelly, George. There ! " 

Mr. Bagnet, otherwise as immovable as a pump or a lamp-post, 
puts his large right hand on the top of his bald head, as if to 
defend it from a shower-bath, and looks with great uneasiness at 
Mrs. Bagnet. 

" George ! " says that old girl. " I wonder at you ! George, I 
am ashamed of you ! George, I couldn't have believed you would 
have done it 1 I always knew you to be a rolling stone that gath- 
ered no moss ; but I never thought you would have taken away 
what little moss there was for Bagnet and the children to lie upon. 
You know what a hard-working, steady-going chap he is. You 
know what Quebec and Malta and Woolwich are — and I never 
did think you would, or could, have had the heart to serve us so. 
George ! " Mrs. Bagnet gathers up her cloak to wipe her eyes 
on, in a very genuine manner. " How could you do it ? " 

Mrs. Bagnet ceasing, Mr. Bagnet removes his hand from his 
head as if the shower-bath were over, and looks disconsolately at 
Mr. George ; who has turned quite white, and looks distressfully 
at the grey cloak and straw bonnet. 

"Mat," says the trooper, in a subdued voice, addressing him, 
but still looking at his wife ; "I am sorry you take it so much to 
heart, because I do hope it's not so bad as that comes to. I cer- 
tainly have, this morning, received this letter;" which he reads 



442 BLEAK HOUSE. 

aloud ; "but I hope it may be set right yet. As to a rolling stone, 
why, what you say is true. I a??i a rolling stone ; and I never 
rolled in anybody's way, I Mly believe, that I rolled the least 
good to. But it's impossible for an old vagabond comrade to like 
your wife and family better than / like 'em. Mat, and I trust 
you'll look upon me as forgivingly as you can. Don't think I've 
kept anything from you. I haven't had the letter more than a 
quarter of an hour." 

" Old girl ! " murmurs Mr. Bagnet, after a short silence, " will 
you tell him my opinion 1 " 

" Oh ! Why didn't he marry," Mrs. Bagnet answers, half laugh- 
ing and half crying, " Joe Pouch's widder in North America ? 
Then he wouldn't have got himself into these troubles." 

"The old girl," says Mr. Bagnet, "puts it correct — why didn't 
you ? " 

"Well, she has a better husband by this time, I hope," returns 
the trooper. ' " Anyhow, here 1 stand, this present day, not married 
to Joe Pouch's widder. Wliat shall I do ? You see all I have 
got about me. It's not mine ; it's yours. Give the word, and 
I'll sell off every morsel. If I could have hoped it would have 
brought in nearly the sum wanted, I'd have sold all long ago. 
Don't believe that I'll leave you or yours in the lurch. Mat. I'd 
sell myself first. I only wish," says the trooper, giving himself a 
disparaging blow in the chest, " that I knew of any one who'd buy 
such a second-hand piece of old stores." 

" Old girl," murmurs Mr. Bagnet, " give him another bit of my 
mind." 

"George," says tlie old girl, "you are not so much to be 
blamed, on full consideration, except for ever taking this business 
without the means." 

" And that was like me ! " observes the penitent trooper, 
shaking his head. "Like me, I know." 

"Silence! The old girl," says Mr. Bagnet, "is correct — in 
her way of giving my opinions — hear me out ! " 

"That was when you never ought to have asked for the secu- 
rity, George, and when you never ought to have got it, all things 
considered. But what's done can't be undone. You are always! 
an honourable and straightforward fellow, as far as lays in yourj 
power, though a little flighty. On the other hand, you can't' 
admit but what it's natural in us to be anxious, with such a thing' 
hanging over our heads. So forget and forgive all round, George. 
Come ! Forget and forgive all round ! " 

Mrs. Bagnet giving him one of her honest hands, and giving 
her husband the other, Mr. George gives each of them one of his, 
and holds them while he speaks. 



BLEAK HOUSE. 443 

"I do assure you both, there's nothing I wouldn't do to dis- 
charge this obligation. But whatever I have been able to scrape 
together, has gone every two months in keeping it up. We have 
lived plainly enough here, Phil and I. But the Gallery don't quite 
do what was expected of it, and it's not — in short, it's not the 
Mint. It was wrong in me to take it ? Well, so it was. But I 
was in a manner drawn into that step, and I thought it might 
steady me, and set me up, and you'll try to overlook my having 
such expectations, and upon my soul, I am very much obliged to 
you, and veiy much ashamed of myself." With these concluding 
words, Mr. George gives a shake to each of the hands he holds, 
and, relinquishing them, backs a pace or two, in a broad-chested 
upright attitude, as if he had made- a final confession, and were 
immediately going to be shot with all military honours. 

" George, hear me out ! " says Mr. Bagnet, glancing at his wife. 
" Old girl, go on ! " 

Mr. Bagnet, being in this singular manner heard out, has merely 
to observe that the letter must be attended to without any delay ; 
that it is advisable that George and he should immediately wait 
on Mr. Smallweed in person ; and that the primary object is to 
save and hold harmless Mr. Bagnet, who had none of the money. 
Mr. George entirely assenting, puts on his hat, and prepares to 
march with Mr. Bagnet to the enemy's camp. 

"Don't you mind a woman's hasty word, George," says Mrs. 
Bagnet, patting him on the shoulder. " I trust my old Lignum to 
you, and I am sure you'll bring him through it." 

The trooper returns, that this is kindly said, and that he will 
bring Lignum through it somehow. Upon which Mrs. Bagnet, with 
her cloak, basket, and umbrella, goes home, bright-eyed again, to 
the rest of her family ; and the comrades sally forth on the hopeful 
errand of mollifying Mr. Smallweed. 

Whether there are two people in England less likely to come 
satisfactorily out of any negotiation with Mr. Smallweed than Mr. 
George and Mr. Matthew Bagnet, may be very reasonably ques- 
tioned. Also, notwithstanding their martial appearance, broad 
square shoulders, and heavy tread, whether there are, within the 
same limits, two more simple and unaccustomed children, in all the 
Smallweedy affairs of life. As they proceed with great gravity 
through the streets towards the region of Mount Pleasant, Mr. 
Bagnet, observing his companion to be thoughtful, considers it a 
fiiendly part to refer to Mrs. Bagnet's late sally. 

" George, you know the old girl — she's as sweet and as mild as 
milk. But touch her on the children — or myself — and she's off 
like gixnpowder." 



444 BLEAK HOUSE. 

" It does her credit, Mat ! " 

" George," says Mr. Bagnet, looking straight before him, " the 
old girl — can't do anything — that don't do her credit. More or 
less. I never say so. Discipline must be maintained." 

" She's worth her weight in gold," returns the trooper. 

" In gold ? " says Mr. Bagnet. " I'll tell you what. The old 
girl's weight — is twelve stone six. Would I take that weight — 
in any metal — for the old girl ? No. Why not ? Because the 
old girl's metal is far more precious — than the preciousest metal. 
And she's all metal ! " 

"You are right, Mat!" 

"When she took me — and accepted of the ring — she 'listed 
under me and the children — heart and head ; for life. She's that 
earnest," says Mr. Bagnet, "and that true to her colours — that, 
touch us with a finger — and she turns out — and stands to her 
arms. If the old girl fires wide — ■ once in a way — at the call of 
duty — look over it, George. For she's loyal ! " 

"Why bless her, Mat!" returns the trooper, "I think the 
higher of her for it ! " 

" You are right ! " says Mr. Bagnet, with the warmest enthusi- 
asm, though without relaxing the rigidity of a single muscle. " Think 
as high of the old girl — as the rock of Gibraltar — and still you'll 
be thinking low — of such merits. But I never own to it before 
her. Discipline must be maintained." 

These encomiums bring them to Mount Pleasant, and to Grand- 
father Smallweed's house. The door is ojDened by the perennial 
Judy, who, having surveyed them from top to toe with no particu- 
lar favour, but indeed- with a malignant sneer, leaves them stand- 
ing there, while she consults the oracle as to their admission. 
The oracle may be inferred to give consent, from the circumstance 
of her returning with the words on her honey lips "that they can 
come in if they want to it." Thus privileged they come in, and 
find Mr. Smallweed with his feet in the drawer of his chair as if. 
it were a paper footbath, and Mrs. Smallweed obscured with the 
cushion like a bird that is not to sing. 

"My dear friend," says Grandfather Smallweed, with those two 
lean, aftectionate arms of his stretched forth. "How de do? 
How de do ? Who is our friendj my dear friend 1 " 

" Why this," returns George, not able to be veiy conciliatory at 
first, "is Matthew Bagnet, who has obliged me in that matter of 
ours, you know." 

"Oh! Mr. Bagnet? Surely!" The old man looks at him 
under his hand. " Hope you're well, Mr. Bagnet ? Fine man, 
Mr. George ! Military air, sir ! " 



BLEAK HOUSE. 445 

No chairs being offered, Mr. George brings one forward for Bag- 
net, and one for himself. They sit down ; Mr. Bagnet as if he had 
no power of bending himself, except at the hips, for that purpose. 

" Judy," says Mr. Smallweed, " bring the pipe." 

" Why, I don't know," Mr. George interposes, " that the young 
woman need give herself that trouble, for, to tell you the truth, I 
am not inclined to smoke it to-day." 

" Ain't you ? " returns the old man. " Judy, bring the pipe." 

"The fact is, Mr. Smallweed," i^roceeds George, "that I find 
myself in rather an unpleasant state of mind. It appears to me, 
sir, that your friend in the city has been playing tricks." 

" dear no ! " says Grandfather Smallweed. " He never does 
that ! " 

"Don't he? Well, I am glad to hear it, because I thought it 
might be A/.s doing. This, you know, I am sj^eaking of This 
etter." 

Grandfather Smallweed smiles in a very ugly way, in recognition 
of the letter. 

" What does it mean 1 " asks Mr. George. 

" Judy," says the old man. " Have you got the pipe ? Give it 
to me. Did you say what does it mean, my good friend ? " 

"Aye! Now, come, come, you know, Mr. Smallweed," urges 
the trooper, constraining himself to speak as smoothly and confi- 
dentially as he can, holding the open letter in one hand, and rest- 
ing the broad knuckles of the other on his thigh ; " a good lot of 
money has passed between us, and we are face to face at the pres- 
ent moment, and are both well aware of the understanding there 
has always been. I am prepared to do the usual thing which I 
have done regularly, and to keep this matter going. I never got a 
letter like this from you before, and I have been a little put about 
by it this morning ; because here's my friend Matthew Bagnet, who, 
you know, had none of the money — - — " 

" I do7i't know it, you know," says the old man, quietly. 

"Why, con-found you — it, I mean — I tell you so; don't I?" 

" Oh, yes, you tell me so," returns Grandfather Smallweed. 
"But I don't know it." 

" Well ! " says the trooper, swallowing his fire. " / know it." 

Mr. Smallweed replies with excellent temper, "Ah! that's quite 
another thing ! " And adds, " but it don't matter. Mr. Bagnet's 
situation is all one, whether or no." 

The unfortunate George makes a great eftbrt to arrange the afiair 
I comfortably, and to propitiate Mr. Smallweed by taking him upon 
his own terms. 

"That's just what I mean. As you say, Mr. Smallweed, here's 



446 BLEAK HOUSE. 

Matthew Bagtiet liable to be fixed whether or no. Now, you see, 
that makes his good lady very uneasy in her mind, and me too ; for, 
whereas I'm a harum-scarum sort of a good-for-nought, that more 
kicks than halfpence come natural to, why he's a steady family man, 
don't you see? Now, Mr. Smallweed," says the trooper, gaining 
confidence as he proceeds in his soldierly mode of doing business ; 
" although you and I are good friends enough in a certain sort of a 
way, I am well aware that I can't ask you to let my friend Bagnet 
off entirely." 

" dear, you are too modest. You can ask me anything, Mr. 
George." (There is an Ogreish kind of jocularity in Grandfather 
Smallweed to-day.) 

" And you can refuse, you mean, eh ? Or not you so much, per- 
haps, as your friend in the city ? Ha ha ha ! " 

" Ha ha ha ! " echoes Grandfather Smallweed. In such a very 
hard manner, and with eyes so particularly green, that Mr. Bagnet 's 
natural gravity is much deepened by the contemplation of that ven- 
erable man. 

" Come ! " says the sanguine George, " I am glad to find we can 
be pleasant, because I want to arrange this pleasantly. Here's my 
friend Bagnet, and here am I. We'll settle the matter on the spot, 
if you please, Mr. Smallweed, in the usual way. And you'll ease 
my friend Bagnet's mind, and his family's mind, a good deal, if 
you'll just mention to him what our vmderstanding is." 

Here some shrill spectre cries out in a mocking manner, " good 
gracious ! O ! " — unless, indeed, it be the sportive Judy, who ia 
found to be silent when the startled visitors look round, but whose 
chin has received a .recent toss, expressive of derision and con- 
tempt. Mr. Bagnet's gravity becomes yet more profound. 

" But I think you asked me, Mr. George ; " old Smallweed, who 
all this time has had the pipe in his hand, is the speaker now ; 
" I think you asked me, what did the letter mean ? " 

"Why, yes, I did," returns the trooper, in his off-hand way: 
" but I don't care to know particularly, if it's all correct and 
pleasant." 

Mr. Smallweed, purposely balking himself in an aim at the 
trooper's head, throws the pipe on the ground and breaks it to pieces. 

" That's what it means, my dear friend. I'll smash you. I'll 
crumble you. I'll powder you. Go to the devil ! " 

The two friends rise and look at one another. Mr. Bagnet's 
gravity has now attained its profoundest point. 

" Go to the devil ! " repeats the old man. " I'll have no more 
of your pipe-smokings and swaggerings. What ? You're an inde- 
pendent dragoon, too ! Go to my lawyer (you remember where ; 



448 BLEAK HOUSE. 

you have been there before), and show your independence now, will 
you 1 Come, my dear friend, there's a chance for you. Open the 
street door, Judy ; put these blusterers out ! Call in help if they 
don't go. Put 'em out ! " 

He vociferates this so loudly, that Mr. Bagnet, laying his hands 
on the shoulders of his comrade, before the latter can recover from 
his amazement, gets him on the outside of the street door ; which 
is instantly slammed by the triumphant Judy. Utterly confounded, 
Mr. George awhile stands looking at the knocker. Mr. Bagnet, in 
a perfect abyss of gravity, walks up and down before the little par- 
lour window, like a sentry, and looks in every time he passes j 
apparently revolving something in his mind. 

" Come, Mat ! " says Mr. George, when he has recovered him- 
self, " we must try the lawyer. Now, what do you think of this 
rascal ? " 

Mr. Bagnet, stopping to take a farewell look into the parlour, re- 
phes, with one shake of liis head directed at the interior, " If my 
old girl had been here — I'd have told him ! " Having so dis- 
charged himself of the subject of his cogitations, he falls into 
step, and marches off with the trooper, shoulder to shoulder. 

When they present themselves in Lincoln's Inn Fields, Mr, 
Tulkinghorn is engaged, and not to be seen. He is not at all will- 
ing to see them ; for when they have waited a full hour, and the 
clerk, on his bell being rung, takes the opportunity of mentioning 
as much, he brings forth no more encouraging message than that 
Mr. Tulkinghorn has nothing to say to them, and they had better 
not wait. They do wait, however, with the perseverance of mil- 
itary tactics ; and at last the bell rings again, and the client in pos- 
session comes out of Mr. Tulkinghorn's room. 

The client is a handsome old lady ; no other than Mrs. Rounce- 
well, housekeeper at Chesney Wold. She comes out of the sanc- 
tuary with a fair old-fashioned curtsey, and softly shuts the door. 
She is treated with some distinction there ; for the clerk steps out 
of his pew to show her through the outer office, and to let her out. 
The old lady is thanking him for his attention, when she observes 
the comrades in waiting. 

"I beg your pardon, sir, but I think those gentlemen are 
military ? " 

The clerk referring the question to them with his eye, and Mr. 
George not turning round from the almanack over the fire-place, 
Mr. Bagnet takes upon himself to reply, " Yes, ma'am. Formerly."; 

" I thought so. I was sure of it. My heart warms, gentlemen,| 
at the sight of you. It always does at the sight of such. God 
bless you, gentlemen ! You'll excuse an old woman ; but I had 



BLEAK HOUSE. 449 

son once who went for a soldier. A fine handsome youth he was, 
and good in his bold way, though some people did disparage him 
to his poor mother. I ask your pardon for troubling you, sir. 
God bless you, gentlemen ! " 

" Same to you, ma'am ! " returns Mr. Bagnet, with right good will. 
There is something very touching in the earnestness of the old 
lady's voice, and in the tremble that goes through her quaint old 
figure. But Mr. George is so occupied with the almanack over 
the fire-place (calculating the coming months by it perhaps), that 
he does not look round until she has gone away, and the door is 
closed upon her. 

"George," Mr. Bagnet gruffly whispers, when he does turn from 
the olmauack at last. " Don't be cast down ! ' Why, soldiers, 
why — should we be melancholy, boys ? ' Cheer up, my hearty ! " 
The clerk having now again gone in to say that they are still 
there, and Mr. Tulkinghorn being heard to return with some iras- 
cibility, " Let 'em come in then ! " they pass into the great room 
with the painted ceiling, and find him standing before the fire. 

"Now, you men, what do you want? Serjeant, I told you the 
last time I saw you that I don't desire your company here." 

Serjeant replies — dashed within the last few minutes as to his 
usual manner of speech, and even as to his usual carriage — that 
he has received this letter, has been to Mr. Smallweed about it, 
and has been referred there. 

" I have nothing to say to you," rejoins Mr. Tulkinghorn. " If 
you get mto debt, you must pay your debts, or take the conse- 
quences. You have no occasion to come here to learn that, I 
suppose ? " 

Serjeant is sony to say that he is not prepared with the money. 
"Very well ! Then the other man — this man, if this is he — 
I must pay it for you." 

Serjeant is sorry to add that the other man is not prepared with 
t the money either. 

" Very well ! Then you must pay it between you, or you must 
>' both be sued for it, and both suffer. You have had the money 
I and must refund it. You are not to pocket other people's pounds, 
1 shillings, and pence, and escape scot free." 

The lawyer sits down in his easy chair and stirs the fire. Mr. 

George hopes he will have tlie goodness to 

1 "I tell you, Serjeant, I have nothing to say to you. I don't 
, like your associates, and don't want you here. This matter is not 
1 at all in my course of practice, and is not in my office. Mr. Small- 
weed is good enough to offer these affairs to me, but they are not 
in my way. You must go to Melchisedech's in Cliff'ord's Inn." 

•2g 



450 BLEAK HOUSE. 

"I must make an apology to you, sir," says "r. George, "for 
pressing myself upon you with so little encouragement — which is 
almost as unpleasant to me as it can be to you ; but would you let 
me say a private word to you ? " 

Mr. Tulkinghorn rises with his hands in his pockets, and walks 
into one of the window recesses. " Now ! I have no time to 
waste." In the midst of his perfect assumption of indifference, 
he directs a sharp look at the trooj^er ; taking care to stand with 
his own back to the light, and to have the other with his face 
towards it. 

"Well, sir," says Mr. George, "this man with me is the other 
party implicated in this unfortunate affair — nominally, only nom- 
inally — and my sole object is to prevent his getting into trouble 
on my account. He is a most respectable man with a wife and 
family ; formerly in the Royal Artillery " 

" My friend, I don't care a pinch of snuff for the whole Royal 
Artillery establishment — officers, men, tumbrils, waggons, horses, 
guns, and ammunition." 

" 'Tis likely, sir. But I care a good deal for Bagnet and his > 
wife and family being injured on my account. And if I could 
bring them through this matter, I should have no help for it but 
to give up without any other consideration, what you wanted of me 
the other day." 

" Have you got it here ? " 

"I have got it here, sir." 

" Serjeant," the lawyer proceeds in his dry passionless manner, 
far more hopeless in the dealing Avith, than any amount of vehe- { 
mence, " make up your mind while I speak to you, for this is final. ' 
After I have finished " speaking I have closed the subject, and I 
won't reopen it. Understand that. You can leave here, for a 
few days, what you say you have brought here, if you choose ; you 
can take it away at once, if you choose. In case you choose to 
leave it here, I can do this for you — I can replace this matter on 
its old footing, and I can go so far besides as to give you a written 
undertaking that this man Bagnet shall never be troubled in any 
way until you have been proceeded against to the utmost — that 
your means shall be exhausted before the creditor looks to his. 
This is in fact all but freeing him. Have you decided ? " 

The trooper puts his hand into his breast, and answers with a 
long breath, "I must do it, sir." 

So Mr. Tulkinghorn, putting on his spectacles, sits down and 
writes the undertaking; which he slowly reads and explains to 
Bagnet, who has all this time been staring at the ceiling, and who 
puts his hand on his bald head again, under this new verbal 



BLEAK HOUSE. 451 

shower-bath, ana seems exceedingly in need of the old girl through 
whom to express his sentiments. The trooper then takes from 
his breast-pocket a folded paper, which he lays with an unwilling 
hand at the lawyer's elbow. " 'Tis only a letter of instructions, 
sir. The last I ever had from him." 

Look at a millstone, Mr. George, for some change in its expres- 
sion, and you will find it quite as soon as in the face of Mr. 
Tulkinghorn when he opens and reads the letter ! He refolds it, 
and lays it in his desk, with a countenance as imperturbable as 
Death. 

Nor has he anything more to say or do, but to nod once in the 
same frigid and discourteous manner, and to say briefly, " You can 
go. Show these men out, there ! " Being shown out, they repair 
to Mr. Bagnet's residence to dine. 

Boiled beef and greens constitute the day's variety on the former 
repast of boiled pork and greens ; and Mrs. Bagnet serves out the 
meal in the same way, and seasons it with the best of temper : 
being that rare sort of old girl that she receives Good to her arms 
without a hint that it might be Better ; and catches light from 
any little spot of darkness near her. The spot on this occasion 
is the darkened brow of Mr. George ; he is unusually thoughtful 
and depressed. At first Mrs. Bagnet trusts to the combined en- 
dearments of Quebec ai 1 Malta to restore him ; but finding those 
young ladies sensible that their existing Bluffy is not the Bluffy 
of their usual frolicsome acquaintance, she winks oft" the light 
infantry, and leaves him to deploy at leisure on the open ground 
of the domestic hearth. 

But he does not. He remains in close order, clouded and 
depressed. During the lengthy cleaning up and pattening process, 
when he and Mr. Bagnet are supplied with their pipes, he is no 
I better than he was at dinner. He forgets to smoke, looks at the 
I fire and ponders, lets his pipe out, fills the breast of Mr. Bagnet 
\ with perturbation and dismay, by showing that he has no enjoy- 
ment of tobacco. 

Therefore when Mrs. Bagnet at last appears, rosy from the in- 
. vigorating pail, and sits down to her work, Mr. Bagnet growls 
" Old girl ! " and winks monitions to her to find out what's the 
I matter. 

" Why, George ! " says Mrs. Bagnet, quietly threading her nee- 
[i die. " How low you are ! " 

J " Am I ? Not good company ? Well, I am afraid I am not." 
J "He ain't at all like Bluffy, mother ! " cries little Malta. 
[ " Because he ain't well, / think, mother ! " adds Quebec. 

" Sure that's a bad sign not to be like Bluffy, too ! " returns the 



452 BLEAK HOUSE. 

trooper, kissing the young damsels. " But it's true," with a sigh 
— " true, I am afraid. These little ones are always right ! " 

"George," says Mrs. Bagnet, working busily, "if I thought you 
cross enough to think of anything tbat a shrill old soldier's wife — 
who could have bitten her tongue off afterwards, and ought to have 
done it almost — said this morning, I don't know what I shouldn't 
say to you now." 

"My kind soul of a darling," returns the trooper. "Not a 
morsel of it." 

" Because really and truly, George, what I said and meant to 
say, was that I trusted Lignum to you, and was sure you'd bring 
him through it. And you have brought him through it, noble ! " 

" Thank'ee, my dear, " says George. " I am glad of your good 
opinion." 

In giving Mrs. Bagnet's hand, with her work in it, a friendly 
shake — for she took her seat beside him — the trooper's attention 
is attracted to her face. After looking at it for a little while as 
she plies her needle, he looks to young Woolwich, sitting on his 
stool in the cornei', and beckons that fifer to him. 

"See there, my boy," says George, very gently smoothing the 
mother's hair with his hand, "there's a good loving forehead for 
you ! All bright with love of you, my boy. A little touched by 
the sun and the weather through follo\ving your father about and 
taking care of you, but as fresh and wholesome as a ripe apple on 
a tree." 

Mr. Bagnet's face expresses, so far as in its wooden material lies, , 
the highest approbation and acquiescence. ' 

"The time will come, my boy," pursues the trooper, "when this 
hair of your mother's Avill be grey, and this forehead all crossed and 
recrossed with wrinkles — and a fine old lady she'll be then. 
Take care, while you are young, that you can think in those days, 
' / never whitened a hair of her dear head, / never marked a 
sorrowful line in her face ! ' For of all the many things that you 
can think of when you are a man, you had better have that by 
you, Woolwich ! " ^ 

Mr. George concludes by rising from his chair, seating the boy 
beside his mother in it, and saying, with something of a hurry about 
him, that he'll smoke his pipe in the street a bit. 

I 



BLEAK HOUSE. 453 

CHAPTER XXXV. 

Esther's narrative. 

I LAY ill through several weeks, and the usual tenour of my life 
became like an old remembrance. But, this was not the effect of 
time, so much as of the change in all my habits, made by the help- 
lessness and inaction of a sick room. Before I had been confined 
to it many days, everything else seemed to have retired into a re- 
mote distance, where there was little or no separation between the 
various stages of my life which had been really divided by years. 
In falling ill, I seemed to have crossed a dark lake, and to have 
left all my experiences, mingled together by the great distance, on 
the healthy shore. 

My housekeeping duties, though at first it caused me great 
anxiety to think that they were unperformed, were soon as far off 
as the oldest of the old duties at Greenleaf, or the summer after- 
noons when I went home from school with my portfolio under my 
arm, and my childish shadow at my side, to my godmother's house. 
I had never known before how short life really was, and into how 
small a space the mind could put it. 

While I was very ill, the way in which tliese divisions of time 
became confused with one another, distressed my mind exceedingly. 
At once a child, an elder girl, and the little woman I had been so 
happy as, I was not only oppressed by cares and difficulties adapted 
to each station, but by the great perplexity of endlessly trying to 
reconcile them. I suj^pose that few who have not been in such a 
condition can quite understand what I mean, or what painful unrest 
arose from this source. 

For the same reason I am almost afraid to hint at that time in 
my disorder — it seemed one long night, but I believe there were 
both nights and days in it — when I laboured up colossal staircases, 
ever striving to reach the top, and ever turned, as I have seen a 
worm in a garden path, by some obstruction, and labouring again. 
I knew perfectly at intervals, and I think vaguely at most times, 
that I was in my bed ; and I talked with Charley, and felt her 
touch, and knew her very well ; yet I would find myself com- 
plaining " more of these never-ending stairs, Charley, — more 
and more — piled up to the sky, I think ! " and labouring on 
again. 

Dare I hint at that worse time when, stnmg together somewhere 
in great black space, there was a flaming necklace, or ring, or starry 
circle of some kind, of which / was one of the beads ! And when 
my only prayer was to be taken off from the rest, and when it was 



454 BLEAK HOUSE. 

such inexplicable agony and misery to be a part of the dreadful 
thing 1 

Perhaps the less I say of these sick experiences, the less tedious 
and the more intelligible I shall be. I do not recall them to make 
others unhappy, or because I am now the least imhappy in remem- 
bering them. It may be that if we knew more of such strange 
afflictions, we might be better able to alleviate their intensity. 

The repose that succeeded, the long delicious sleep, the blissful 
rest, when in my weakness I was too calm to have any care for 
myself, and could have heard (or so I think now) that I was dying ; 
with no other emotion than with a pitying love for those I left behind 
— this state can be perhaps more widely understood. I was in this 
state when I first shrunk from the light as it twinkled on me once 
more, and knew with a boundless joy for which no words are raptu- 
rous enough, that I should see again. 

I had heard my Ada crying at the door, day and night ; I had 
heard her calling to me that I was cruel and did not love her ; I 
had heard her praying and imploring to be let in to nurse and com- 
fort me, and to leave my bedside no more ; but I had only said, 
when I could speak, " Never, my sweet girl, never ! " and I had 
over and over again reminded Charley that she was to keep my 
darling from the room, whether I lived or died. Charley had been 
true to me in that time of need, and with her little hand and her 
great heart had kept the door fast. 

But now, my sight strengthening, and the glorious light coming 
every day more fully and brightly on me, I could read the letters 
that my dear wrote to me every morning and evening, and could 
put them to my lips and lay my cheek upon them with no fear of 
hurting her. I could see my little maid, so tender and so careful, 
going about the two rooms setting everything in order, and speak- 
ing cheerfully to Ada from the open window again. I could under-, 
stand the stillness in the house, and the thoughtfulness it expressed 
on the part of all those who had always been so good to me. Ij 
could weep in the exquisite felicity of my heart, and be as happyj 
in my weakness as ever I had been in my strength. ; 

By-and-bye, my strength began to be restored. Instead of lyings 
with so strange a calmness, watching what was done for me, as if 
it were done for some one else whom I was quietly soriy for, I 
helped it a little, and so on to a little more and much more, until 
I became useful to myself, and interested, and attached to life 
again. 

How well I remember the pleasant afternoon when I was raised 
in bed with pillows for the fii'st time, to enjoy a great tea-drinking 
with Charley ! The little creature — sent into the world, surely, 



BLEAK HOUSE. 455 

to miaister to the weak and sick — was so happy, and so bi;sy, 
and stopped so often in her preparations to lay her liead upon my 
bosom, and fondle me, and cry with joyful tears she was so glad, 
she was so glad ! that I was obliged to say, " Charley, if you go on 
in this way, I must lie down again, my darling, for I am weaker 
than I thought I was ! " So Charley became as quiet as a mouse, 
and took her bright face here and there, across and across the two 
rooms, out of the shade into the divine sunshine, and out of the 
sunshine into the shade, while I watched her peacefully. When 
all her preparations were concluded and the pretty tea-table with 
its little delicacies to tempt me, and its white cloth, and its flowers, 
and everything so lovingly and beautifully arranged for me by Ada 
down-stairs, was ready at the bed-side, I felt sure I was steady 
enough to say something to Charley that was not new to my 
thoughts. 

First, I complimented Charley on the room ; and indeed, it was 
so fresh and airy, so spotless and neat, that I could scarce believe 
I had been lying there so long. This delighted Charley, and her 
face was brighter than before. 

" Yet, Charley," said I, looking round, " I miss something, 
surely, that I am accustomed to ? " 

Poor little Charley looked round too, and pretended to shake 
her head, as if there were nothing absent. 

" Are the pictures all as they used to be ? " I asked her. 

"Every one of them, miss," said Charley. 

"And the furniture, Charley?" 

"Except where I have moved it about, to make more room, 
) miss." 

"And yet," said I, "I miss some familiar object. Ah, I know 
'.what it is, Charley ! It's the looking-glass." 

Charley got up from the table, making as if she had forgotten 
j something, and went into the next room ; and I heard her sob 
there. 

I had thought of this very often. I was now certain of it. I 

could thank God that it was not a shock to me now. I called 

Charley back ; and when she came — at first pretending to smile, 

i'.but as she drew nearer to me, looking grieved — I took her in my 

iiarms, and said, " It matters very little, Charley. I hope I can do 

without my old face very well." 

I was presently so far advanced as to be able to sit up in a great 
chair, and even giddily to walk into the adjoining room, leaning on 
Charley. The mirror was gone from its usual place in that room 
too ; but what I had to bear, was none the harder to bear for that. 

My Guardian had throughout been earnest to visit me, and there 



456 BLEAK HOUSE. 

was now no good reason why I should deny myself that happiness. 
He came one morning ; and when he first came in, could only hold 
me in his embrace, and say, " My dear, dear girl ! " I had long 
known — who could know better ! — what a deep fountain of affec- 
tion and generosity his heart was ; and was it not worth my trivial 
suffering and change to fill such a place in it ? "0 yes ! " I 
thought. " He has seen me, and he loves me better than he did ; 
he has seen me, and is even fonder of me than he was before ; and 
what have I to mourn for ! " 

He sat down by me on the sofa, supporting me with his arm. 
For a little while he sat with his hand over his face, but when he 
removed it, fell into his usual manner. There never can have been, 
there never can be, a pleasanter manner. 

" My little woman," said he, " what a sad time this has been ! 
Such an inflexible little woman, too, through all ! " 

" Only for the best, Guardian," said I. 

"For the best?" he repeated, tenderly. "Of course, for the 
best. But here have Ada and I been perfectly forlorn and miser- 
able ; here has your friend Caddy been coming and going late and 
early ; here has every one about the house been utterly lost and 
dejected; here has even poor Rick been writing — to «ie too — 
in his anxiety for you ! " 

I had read of Caddy in Ada's letters, but not of Richard. I 
told him so. 

"Why, no, my dear," he replied. "I have thought it better 
not to mention it to her." 

"And you speak of his writing to yor<," said I, repeating his 
emphasis. "As if it were not natural for him to do so, Guardian ; 
as if he could write to a better friend ! " 

"He thinks he could, my love," returned my Guardian, "and to 
many a better. The truth is, he wrote to me under a sort of pro- 
test, while unable to write to you with any hope of an answer — 
wrote coldly, haughtily, distantly, resentfully. Well, dearest little 
woman, we must look forbearingly on it. He is not to blame. 
Jarndyce and Jarndyce has warped him out of himself, and per- 
verted me in his eyes. I have known it do as bad deeds, and, 
worse, many a time. If two angels could be concerned in it, I be-! 
lieve it would change their nature." ' 

"It has not changed yours, Guardian." ' 

" Oh yes, it has, my dear," he said, laughingly. " It has mada 
the south wind easterly, I don't know how often. Rick mistrusts 
and suspects me — goes to lawyers, and is taught to mistrust and 
suspect me. Hears I have conflicting interests ; claims clashing 
against his, and what not. Whereas, Heaven knows, that if I could 



BLEAK HOUSE. 457 

get out of the mountains of Wiglomeration on which my unfortu- 
nate name has been so long bestowed (which I can't), or could level 
them by the extinction of my own original right (which I can't, 
either, and no human power ever can, anyhow, I believe, to such a 
pass have we got), I would do it this hour. I would rather restore 
to poor Rick his proper nature, than be endowed with all the 
money that dead suitors, broken, heart and soul, upon the wheel 
of Chancery, have left unclaimed with the Accountant-General — • 
and that's money enough, my dear, to be cast into a pyramid, in 
memory of Chancery's transcendant wickedness." 

" Is it possible, Guardian," I asked, amazed, " that Richard can 
be suspicious of you 1 " 

"Ah, my love, my love," he said, "it is in the subtle poison of 
such abuses to breed such diseases. His blood is infected, and ob- 
jects lose their natural aspects in his sight. It is not his fault." 

" But it is a terrible misfortune, Guardian." 

"It is a terrible misfortune, little woman, to be ever drawn 
within the influences of Jarndyce and Jarndyce. I know none 
greater. By little and little he has been induced to trust in that 
rotten reed, and it communicates some portion of its rottenness to 
everything around him. But again, I say, with all my soul, we 
must be patient with poor Rick, and not blame him. What a 
troop of fine fresh hearts, like his, have I seen in my time turned 
by the same means ! " 

I could not help expressing something of my wonder and re- 
gret that his benevolent disinterested intentions had prospered so 
little. 

"We must not say so, Dame Durden," he cheerfully replied; 
"Ada is the happier, I hope; and that is much. I did think that 
I and both these young creatures might be friends, instead of dis- 
trustful foes, and that we might so far counteract the suit, and 
prove too strong for it. But it was too much to expect. Jarn- 
dyce and Jarndyce was the curtain of Rick's cradle." 

" But, Guardian, may we not hope that a little experience will 
teach him what a false and wretched thing it is 1 " 

"We will hope so, my Esther," said Mr. Jarndyce, "and that 
it may not teach him so too late. In any case we must not be 
hard on him. There are not many grown and matured men liv- 
ing while we speak, good men too, who, if they were thrown into 
this same court as suitors, would not be vitally changed and depre- 
ciated within three years — within two — within one. How can 
we stand amazed at poor Rick? A young man so unfortunate," 
here he fell into a lower tone, as if he were thinking aloud, "can- 
not at first believe (who could ?) that Chancery is what it is. He 



458 BLEAK HOUSE. 

looks to it, flushed and fitfully, to do something with his interests, 
and bring them to some settlement. It procrastinates, disappoints, 
tries, tortures him ; wears out his sanguine hopes and patience, 
thread by thread ; but he still looks to it, and hankers after it, and 
finds his whole world treacherous and hollow. Well, well, well ! 
Enough of this, my dear ! " 

He had supported me, as at first, all this time ; and his tender- 
ness was so precious to me, that I leaned my head upon his shoul- 
der and loved him as if he had been my father. I resolved in my 
own mind in this little pause, by some means, to see Richard 
when I grew strong, and try to set him right. 

"There are better subjects than these," said my Guardian, "for 
such a joyful time as the time of our dear girl's recovery. And I 
had a commission to broach one of them, as soon as I should begin 
to talk. When shall Ada come to see you, my love ? " 

I had been thinking of that too. A little in connection with the 
absent mirrors, but not much; for I knew my loving girl would 
be changed by no change in my looks. 

"Dear Guardian," said I, "as I have shut her out so long — 
though indeed, indeed, she is like the light to me " 

" I know it well. Dame Durden, well." 

He was so good, his touch expressed such endearing compassion 
and aftection, and the tone of his voice carried such comfort into 
my heart, that I stopped for a little while, quite unable to go on. 
"Yes, yes, you are tired," said he. "Rest a little." 

"As I have kept Ada out so long," I began afresh after a short 
while, " I think I should like to have my own way a little longer, 
Guardian. It would be best to be away from here before I see 
her. If Charley and I were to go to some country lodging as soon 
as I can move, and if I had a week there, in which to grow stronger 
and to be revived by the sweet air, and to look forward to the 
happiness of having Ada with me again, I think it would be better 
for us." 

I hope it was not a poor thing in me to wish to be a little more 
used to my altered self, before I met the eyes of the dear girl I 
longed so ardently to see ; but it is the truth. I did. He under- 
stood me, I was sure ; but I was not afraid of that. If it were av 
poor thing, I knew he would pass it over. ' 

"Our spoilt little woman," said my Guardian, "shall have her 
own way even in her inflexibility, though at the price, I know, 
of tears down-stairs. And see here ! Here is Boythorn, heart of 
chivalry, breathing such ferocious vows as never were breathed on 
paper before, that if you don't go and occupy his whole house, 
he having already turned out of it expressly for that purpose, by 



BLEAK HOUSE. 469 

Heaven and by earth he'll pull it down, and not leave one brick 
standing on another ! " 

And my Guardian put a letter in my hand ; without any ordi- 
nary beginning such as "My dear Jarudyce," but rushing at once 
into the words, " I swear if Miss Summerson do not come down 
and take possession of my house, which I vacate for her this day 
at one o'clock, p.m.," and then with the utmost seriousness, and 
in the most emphatic terms, going on to make the extraordinary 
declaration he had quoted. We did not appreciate the writer the 
less, for laughing heartily over it ; and we settled that I should send 
him a letter of thanks on the morrow, and accept his offer. It was 
a most agreeable one to me; for of all the places I could have 
thought of, I should have liked to go to none so well as Chesney 
Wold. 

" Now, little housewife," said my Guardian, looking at his watch, 
" I was strictly timed before I came up-stairs, for you must not be 
tired too soon ; and my time has waned away to the last minute. 
I have one other petition. Little Miss Flite, hearing a rumour 
that you were ill, made nothing of walking down here — twenty 
miles, poor soul, in a pair of dancing shoes — to inquire. It was 
Heaven's mercy we were at home, or she would have walked back 
again." 

The old conspiracy to make me happy ! Everybody seemed to 
be in it ! 

"Now, pet," said my Guardian, "if it would not be irksome to 
you to admit the harmless little creature one afternoon, before you 
save Boythorn's otherwise devoted house from demolition, I believe 
you would make her prouder and better pleased with herself than 
I — though my eminent name is Jarndyce — could do in a life- 
time." 

I have no doubt he knew there would be something in the 
simple image of the poor afflicted creature, that would fall like a 
; gentle lesson on my mind at that time. I felt it as he spoke to 
1 me. I could not tell him heartily enough how ready I was to 
> receive her. I had always pitied her ; never so much as now. 
I had always been glad of my little power to soothe her under her 
i calamity ; but never, never, half so glad before. 

We arranged a time for Miss Flite to come out by the coach, 
and share my early dinner. When my Guardian left me, I turned 
my face away upon my couch, and prayed to be forgiven if I, sur- 
i rounded by such blessings, had magnified to myself the little trial 
I that I had to undergo. The childish prayer of that old birthday, 
when I had aspired to be industrious, contented, and true-hearted, 
and to do some good to some one, and win some love to myself 



460 BLEAK HOUSE. 

if I could, came back into my mind with a reproachful sense of all 
the happiness I had since enjoyed, and all the affectionate hearts 
that have been turned towards me. If I were weak now, what 
had I profited by those mercies? I repeated the old childish 
prayer in its old childish words, and found that its old peace had 
not departed from it. 

My Guardian now came every day. In a week or so more, I 
could walk about our rooms, and hold long talks with Ada from 
behind the window-curtain. Yet I never saw her ; for I had not 
as yet the courage to look at the dear face, though I could have 
done so easily without her seeing me. 

On the appointed day Miss Flite arrived. The poor little creat- 
ure ran ijito my room quite forgetful of her usual dignity, and, 
crying from her very heart of hearts, " My dear Fitz-Jarudyce ! " 
fell upon my neck and kissed me twenty times. 

"Dear me!" said she, putting her hand into her reticule, "I 
have nothing here but documents, my dear Fitz-Jarndyce ; I must 
borrow a pocket-handkerchief." 

Charley gave her one, and the good creature certainly made use 
of it, for she held it to her eyes with both hands, and sat so, shed- 
ding tears for the next ten minutes. 

"With pleasure, my dear Fitz-Jarndyce," she was careful to 
explain. " Not the least pain. Pleasure to see you well again. 
Pleasure at having the honour of being admitted to see you. It 
am so much fonder of you, my love, than of the Chancellor. 
Though I do attend Court regularly. By-the-bye, my dear, men-j 
tioning pocket-handkerchiefs " • 

Miss Flite here looked at Charley, who had been to meet her? 
at the place where the coach stopped. Charley glanced at me,' 
and looked unwilling to pursue the suggestion. 

" Ve-ry right ! " said Miss Flite, " ve-ry correct. Truly ! Highly 
indiscreet of me to mention it ; but my dear Miss Fitz-Jarndyce, 
I am afraid I am at times (between ourselves, you wouldn't think 
it) a little — rambling you know," said Miss Flite, touching her 
forehead. "Nothing more." 

" What were you going to tell me 1 " said I, smiling, for I saw 
she wanted to go on. " You have roused my curiosity, and now 
you must gratify it." 

Miss Flite looked to Charley for advice in this important crisis, 
who said, "If you please, ma'am, you had better tell then," and 
therein gratified Miss Flite beyond measure. 

"So sagacious, our young friend," said she to me, in her myste- 
rious way. "Diminutive. But ve-ry sagacious ! Well, my dear, 
it's a pretty anecdote. Nothing more. Still I think it charm- 



BLEAK HOUSE. 461 

ing. Who should follow us down the road from the coach, my 
dear, but a poor person in a very ungenteel bonnet " 

"Jenny, if you please, miss," said Charley. 

" Just so ! " Miss Flite acquiesced with the greatest suavity. 
" Jenny. Ye-es ! And what does she tell our young friend, but 
that there has been a lady with a veil inquiring at her cottage 
after my dear Fitz-Jarndyce's health, and taking a handkerchief 
away with her as a little keepsake, merely because it was my 
amiable Fitz-Jarndyce's ! Now, you know, so very prepossessing 
in the lady with the veil ! " 

"If you please, miss," said Charley, to whom I looked in some 
astonishment, "Jenny says that when her baby died, you left a 
handkerchief there, and that she put it away and kept it with the 
baby's little things. I think, if you please, partly because it was 
yours, miss, and partly because it had covered the baby." 

"Diminutive," whispered Miss Flite, making a variety of mo- 
tions about her own forehead to express intellect in Charley. 
" But ex-ceedingly sagacious ! And so clear ! My love, she's 
clearer than any Counsel I ever heard ! " 

" Yes, Charley," I returned. " I remember it. Well ? " 

"Well, miss," said Charley, "and that's the handkerchief the 
lady took. And Jenny wants you to know that she wouldn't 
have made away with it herself for a heap of money, but that the 
lady took it, and left some money instead. Jenny don't know 
her at all, if you please, miss." 

"Why, who can she be?" said I. 

"My love," Miss Flite suggested, advancing her lips to my ear, 
with her most mysterious look, " in my opinion — don't mention 
this to our diminutive friend — she's the Lord Chancellor's wife. 
He's married, you know. And I understand she leads him a ter- 
rible life. Thi'ows his lordship's papers into the fire, my dear, if 
he won't pay the jeweller ! " 

I did not think very much about this lady then, for I had an 
impression that it might be Caddy. Besides, my attention was 
diverted by my visitor, who was cold after her ride, and looked 
hungry ; and who, our dinner being brought in, required some 
little assistance in arraying herself with great satisfaction in a 
pitiable old scarf and a much-worn and often-mended pair of gloves, 
which she had brought down in a paper parcel. I had to preside, 
too, over the entertainment, consisting of a dish of fish, a roast 
fowl, a sweetbread, vegetables, pudding, and Madeira ; and it was 
so pleasant to see how she enjoyed it, and with what state and 
ceremony she did honour to it, that I was soon thinking of noth- 
ing else. 



462 BLEAK HOUSE. 

"When we had finished, and had our little dessert before us, 
embellished by the hands of my dear, who would yield the super- 
intendence of everything prepared for me to no one ; Miss Flite 
was so very chatty and happy, that I thought I would lead her 
to her own history, as she was always pleased to talk about her- 
self. I began by saying "You have attended on the Lord Chan- 
cellor many years. Miss Flite ? " 

" many, many, many years, my dear. But I expect a Judg- 
ment. Shortly." 

There was an anxiety even in her hopefulness, that made me 
doubtful if I had done right in approaching the subject. I thought 
I would say no more about it. 

"My father expected a Judgment," said Miss Flite. "My 
brother. My sister. They all expected a Judgment. The same 
that I expect." 

" They are all " 

"Ye-es. Dead of course, my dear," said she. 

As I saw she would go on, I thought it best to try to be 
serviceable to her by meeting the theme, rather than avoiding 
it. 

"Would it not be wiser," said I, "to expect this Judgment no 
more ? " 

" Why, my dear," she answered promptly, " of course it would ! " 

" And to attend the Court no more 1 " 

"Equally of course," said she. "Very wearing to be always 
in expectation of what never comes, my dear Fitz-Jarndyce ! 
Wearing, I assure you, to the bone ! " 

She slightly showed me her arm, and it was fearfully thin 
indeed. 

"But, my dear," she went on, in her mysterious way, "there's 
a dreadful attraction in the place. Hush ! Don't mention it to 
our diminutive friend when she comes in. Or it may frighten her. 
With good reason. There's a crael attraction in the place. You 
can't leave it. And you must expect." 

I tried to assure her that this was not so. She heard me 
patiently and smilingly, but was ready with her own answer. 

" Aye, aye, aye ! You think so, because I am a little rambling. 
Ve-ry absurd, to be a little rambling, is it not ? Ve-ry confusing, 
too. To the head. I find it so. But, my dear, I have been 
there many years, and I have noticed. It's the Mace and Seal 
upon the table." 

What could they do, did she think 1 I mildly asked her. 

"Draw," returned Miss Flite. "Draw people on, my dear. 
Draw peace out of them. Sense out of them. Good looks out of 



BLEAK HOUSE. 463 

them. Good qualities out of them. I have felt them even draw- 
ing my rest away in the night. Cold and glittering devils ! " 

She tapped me several times upon the arm, and nodded good- 
humouredly, as if she were anxious I should understand that I 
had no cause to fear her, though she spoke so gloomily, and con- 
fided these awful secrets to me. 

"Let me see," said she. "I'll tell you my own case. Before 
they ever drew me — before I had ever seen them — what was it 
I used to do? Tambourine playing? No. Tambour work. I 
and my sister worked at tambour work. Our father and our 
brother had a builder's business. We all lived together. Ve-ry 
respectably, my dear ! First, our father was drawn — slowly. 
Home was drawn with him. In a few years, he was a fierce, sour, 
angry bankrupt, without a kind word or a kind look for any one. 
He had been so different, Fitz-Jarndyce. He was drawn to a 
debtor's prison. There he died. Then our brother was drawn — ■ 
swiftly — to drunkenness. And rags. And death. Then my 
sister was drawn. Hush ! Never ask to what ! Then I was ill, 
and in misery ; and heard, as I had often heard before, that this 
was all the work of Chancery. When I got better, I went to look 
at the Monster. And then I found out how it was, and I was 
drawn to stay there." 

Having got over her own short narrative, in the delivery of 
which she had spoken in a low, strained voice, as if the shock were 
fresh upon her, she gradually resumed her usual air of amiable 
importance. 

" You don't quite credit me, my dear ! Well well ! You will, 
some day. I am a little rambling. But I have noticed. I have 
seen many new faces come, unsuspicious, within the influence of the 
Mace and Seal, in these many years. As my father's came there. 
As my brother's. As my sister's. As my own. I hear Conversa- 
tion Kenge, and the rest of them, say to the new faces, ' Here's 
little Miss Flite. you are new here ; and you must come and be 
presented to little Miss Flite ! ' Ve-ry good. Proud I am sure to 
have the honour ! And we all laugh. But, Fitz-Jarndyce, I know 
what will happen. I know, far better than they do, when the 
attraction has begun. I know the signs, my dear. I saw them 
begin in Gridley. And I saw them end. Fitz-Jarndyce, my love," 
speaking low again, " I saw them beginning in our friend the Ward 
in Jamdyce. Let some one hold him back. Or he'll be drawn to 
ruin." 

She looked at me in silence for some moments, with her face 
gradually softening into a smile. Seeming to fear that she had 
been too gloomy, and seeming also to lose the connection in her mind, 



464 BLEAK HOUSE. 

she said, politely, as she sipped her glass of wine, " Yes, my dear, 
as I was saying, I expect a Judgment. Shortly. Then I shall | 
release my birds, you know, and confer estates." 

I was much impressed by her allusion to Richard, and by the 
sad meaning, so sadly illustrated in her poor pinched form, that 
made its way through all her incoherence. But happily for her, 
she was quite complacent again now, and beamed with nods and 
smiles. 

" But, my dear," she said, gaily, reaching another hand to put it 
upon mine. "You have not congratulated me on my physician. 
Positively not once, yet ! " 

I was obliged to confess that I did not quite know Avhat she meant. 

"My physician, Mr. Woodcourt, my dear, who was so exceed- 
ingly attentive to me. Though his services were rendered quite 
gratuitously. Until the Day of Judgment. I mean the judgment 
that will dissolve the spell upon me of the Mace and Seal." 

" Mr. Woodcourt is so far away, now," said I, " that I thought 
the time for such congratulation was past. Miss Flite." 

" But, my child," she returned, " is it possible that you don't know 
what has happened 1 " 

" No," said I. 

"Not what everybody has been talking of, my beloved Fitz- 
Jarndyce ? " 

"No," said I. "You forget how long I have been here." 

" True ! My dear, for the moment — true. I blame myself. 
But my memory has been drawn out of me, with everything else, by 
what I mentioned. Ve-ry strong influence, is it not? Well, my 
dear, there has been a terrible shipwreck over in those East-Indian 
seas." 

" Mr. Woodcourt shipwrecked ! " 

"Don't be agitated, my dear. He is safe. An awful scene. 
Death in all shapes. Hundreds of dead and dying. Fire, storm, 
and darkness. Numbers of the drowning thrown upon a rock. 
There, and through it all, my dear physician was a hero. Calm and 
brave, through everything. Saved many lives, never complained 
in hunger and thirst, wrapped naked people in his spare clothes, 
took the lead, showed them what to do, governed them, tended the 
sick, buried the dead, and brought the poor survivors safely off at 
last ! My dear, the poor emaciated creatures all but worshipped 
him. They fell down at his feet, when they got to the land, and 
blessed him. The whole country rings with it. Stay ! Where's 
my bag of documents ? I have got it there, and you shall read it, 
you shall read it ! " 

And I did read all the noble history ; though very slowly and 



BLEAK HOUSE. 465 

imperfectly then, for my eyes were so dimmed that I could not see 
the words, and I cried so much that I was many times obliged to 
lay down the long account she had cut out of the newspaper. I 
felt so triumphant ever to have known the man who had done such 
generous and gallant deeds ; I felt such glowing exultation in his 
renown ; I so admired and loved what he had done ; that I envied 
the storm- worn peojile who had fallen at his feet and blessed him 
as their preserver. I could myself have kneeled down then, so far 
away, and blessed him, in my rapture that he should be so truly 
good and brave. I felt that no one — mother, sister, wife — could 
honour him more than I. I did, indeed ! 

My poor little visitor made me a present of the account, and 
when, as the evening began to close in, she rose to take her leave, 
lest she should miss the coach by which she was to return, she was 
still full of the shipwreck, which I had not yet sufficiently composed 
myself to understand in all its details. 

"My dear," said she, as she carefully folded up her scarf and 
gloves, " my brave physician ought to have a Title bestowed upon 
him. And no doubt he will. You are of that opinion 1 " 

That he well deserved one, yes. That he would ever have one, 
no. 

"Why not, Fitz- Jarndyce ? " she asked, rather sharply. 

I said it was not the custom in England to confer titles on men 
distinguished by peaceful services, however good and great ; unless 
occasionally, when they consisted of the accumulation of some very 
large amount of money. 

"Why, good gracious," said Miss Flite, "how can you say that? 
Surely you know, my dear, that all the greatest ornaments of Eng- 
land, in knowledge, imagination, active humanity, and improvement 
of every sort, are added to its nobility ! Look round you, my dear, 
and consider. You must be rambling a little now, I think, if you 
don't know that this is the great reason why titles will always last 
in the land ! " 

I am afraid she believed what she said ; for there were moments 
when she was very mad indeed. 

And now I must part with the little secret I have thus far tried 
to keep. I had thought, sometimes, that Mr. Woodcourt loved 
me ; and that if he had been richer, he would perhaps have told 
me that he loved me, before he went away. I had thought, some- 
times, that if he had done so, I should have been glad of it. But, 
how much better it was now, that this had never happened ! What 
should I have suffered, if I had had to write to him, and tell him 
that the poor face he had known as mine was quite gone from me, 

2h 



466 BLEAK HOUSE. 

and that I freely released him from his bondage to one whom 
he had never seen ! 

0, it was so much better as it was ! With a great pang merci- 
fully spared me, I could take back to my heart my childish prayer 
to be all he had so brightly shown himself ; and there was nothing 
to be undone : no chain for me to break, or for him to drag ; and I 
could go, please God, my lowly way along the path of duty, and he 
could go his nobler way upon its broader road ; and though we were 
apart upon the journey, I might aspire to meet him, unselfishly, 
innocently, better far than he had thought me when I found some 
favour in his eyes, at the journey's end. 



CHAPTER XXXVI. 

CHESNEY WOLD. 

Charley and I did not set off alone upon our expedition into 
Lincolnshire. My Guardian had made up his mind not to lose 
sight of me until I was safe in Mr. Boythorn's house ; so he ac- 
companied us, and we were two days upon the road. I found 
every breath of air, and every scent, and every flower and leaf and 
blade of grass, and every passing cloud, and everything in nature, 
more beautiful and wonderful to me than I had ever found it yet. 
This was my first gain from my illness. How little I had lost, 
when the wide world was so full of delight for me. 

My Guardian intending to go back immediately, we appointed, 
on our way down, a day when my dear girl should come. I wrote 
her a letter, of which he took charge ; and he left us within half 
an hour of our arrival at our destination, on a delightful evening 
in the early summer time. 

If a good fairy had built the house for me with a wave of her^ 
wand, and I had been a princess and her favoured godchild, I 
could not have been more considered in it. So many preparations 
were made for me, and such an endearing remembrance was shown 
of all my little tastes and likings, that I could have sat down, over- 
come, a dozen times, before I had revisited half the rooms. I did 
better than that, however, by showing them all to Charley instead, i 
Charley's delight calmed mine ; and after we had had a walk in 
the garden, and Charley had exhausted her whole vocabulary of ad- 
miring expressions, I was as tranquilly happy as I ought to have 
been. It was a great comfort to be able to say to myself after tea, 
" Esther, my dear, I think you are quite sensible enough to sit 
down now, and write a note of thanks to your host." He had left 



BLEAK HOUSE. 467 

a note of welcome for me, as simny as his own face, and had con- 
fided his bird to my care, which I knew to be his highest mark of 
confidence. Accordingly I wrote a little note to him in London, 
telling him how all his favourite plants and trees were looking, and 
how the most astonishing of birds had chirped the honours of the 
house to me in the most hospitable manner, and how, after singing 
on my shoulder, to the inconceivable rapture of my little maid, he 
was then at roost in the usual corner of his cage, but whether 
dreaming or no I could not report. My note finished and sent off 
to the post, I made myself very busy in unpacking and arranging ; 
and I sent Charley to bed in good time, and told her I should 
want her no more that night. 

For I had not yet looked in the glass, and had never asked to 
have my own restored to me. I knew this to be a weakness which 
must be overcome ; but I had always said to myself that I would 
begin afresh, when I got to where I now was. Therefore I had 
wanted to be alone, and therefore I said, now alone, in my own 
room, " Esther, if you are to be happy, if you are to have any 
right to pray to be true-hearted, you must keep your word, my 
dear." I was quite resolved to keep it ; but I sat down for a lit- 
tle while first, to reflect upon all my blessings. And then I said 
my prayers, and thought a little more. 

My hair had not been cut off, though it had been in danger 
more than once. It was long and thick. I let it down, and shook 
it out, and went up to the glass upon the dressing-table. There 
was a little muslin curtain drawn across it. I drew it back ; and 
stood for a moment looking through such a veil of my own hair, 
that I could see nothing else. Then I put my hair aside, and 
looked at the reflection in the mirror ; encouraged by seeing how 
placidly it looked at me. I was very much changed — very, 
very much. At first, my face was so strange to me, that I think 
I should have put my hands before it and started back, but for 
the encouragement I have mentioned. Very soon it became more 
familiar, and then I knew the extent of the alteration in it better 
than I had done at first. It was not like what I had expected ; 
but I had expected nothing definite, and I dare say anything defi- 
' nite would have surprised me. 

I had never been a beauty, and had never thought myself one ; 

'but I had been very different from this. It was all gone now. 

Heaven was so good to me, that I could let it go with a few not 

bitter tears, and could stand there arranging my hair for the night 

, quite thankfully. 

One thing troubled me, and I considered it for a long time before 
: I went to sleep. I had kept Mr. Woodcourt's flowers. When 



468 BLEAK HOUSE. 

they were withered I had dried them, and put them in a book that 
I was fond of. Nobody knew this, not even Ada. I was doubtful 
whether I had a right to preserve what he had sent to one so dif- 
ferent — whether it was generous towards him to do it. I wished 
to be generous to him, even in the secret depths of my heart, which 
he would never know, because I could have loved him — could 
have been devoted to him. At last I came to the conclusion that 
I might keep them ; if I treasured them only as a remembrance of 
what was irrevocably past and gone, never to be looked back on 
any more, in any other light. I hope this may not seem trivial. I 
was very much in earnest. 

I took care to be up early in the morning, and to be before the 
glass when Charley came in on tiptoe. 

" Dear, dear, miss ! " cried Charley, starting. " Is that you '? " 

" Yes, Charley," said I, quietly putting up my hair. " And I 
am very well indeed, and very happy." 

I saw it was a weight off Charley's mind, but it was a greater 
weight off mine. I knew the worst now, and was composed to it. 
I shall not conceal, as I go on, the weaknesses I could not quite 
conquer ; but they always passed from me soon, and the happier • 
frame of mind stayed by me faithfully. 

Wishing to be fully re-established in my strength and my good 
spirits before Ada came, I now laid down a little series of plans 
with Charley for being in the fresh air all day long. We were • 
to be out before breakfast, and were to dine early, and were to be < 
out again before and after dinner, and were to walk in the garden 
after tea, and were to go to rest betimes, and were to climb every 
hUl and explore every road, lane, and field in the neighbourhood. 
As to restoratives and strengthening delicacies, Mr. Boythorn's 
good housekeeper was for ever trotting about with something to 
eat or drink in her hand; I could not even be heard of as resting 
in the park, but she would come trotting after me with a basket, 
her cheerful face shining with a lecture on the importance of fre- 
quent nourishment. Then there was a pony expressly for my rid- 
ing, a chubby pony, with a short neck and a mane all over his 
eyes, who could canter — when he would — so easily and quietly, 
that he was a treasure. In a very few days, he would come to me 
in the paddock when I called him, and eat out of my hand, and 
follow me about. We arrived at such a capital understanding, 
that when he was jogging with me lazily, and rather obstinately, 
down some shady lane, if I patted his neck, and said, " Stvxbbs, I 
am surprised you don't canter when you know how much I like it ; 
and I think you might oblige me, for you are only getting stupid 
and going to sleep," he would give his head a comical shake or 



BLEAK HOUSE. 469 

two, and set otf directly ; while Charley would stand still and 
laugh with such enjoyment, that her laughter was like music. I 
don't know who had given Stubbs his name, but it seemed to be- 
long to him as naturally as his rough coat. Once we put him in a 
little chaise, and drove him triumphantly through the green lanes 
for five miles ; but all at once, as we were extoUing him to the 
skies, he seemed to take it ill that he should have been accom- 
panied so far by the circle of tantalizing little gnats, that had been 
hovering round and round his ears the whole way without appear- 
ing to advance an inch ; and stopped to think about it. I suppose 
he came to the decision that it was not to be borne ; for he steadily 
refused to move, until I gave the reins to Charley and got out and 
walked ; when he followed me with a sturdy sort of good-humour, 
putting his head under my arm, and rubbing his ear against my 
sleeve. It was in vain for me to say, " Now, Stubbs, I feel quite 
sure from what I know of you, that you will go on if I ride a lit- 
tle while ; " for the moment I left him, he stood stock still again. 
Consequently I was obliged to lead the way, as before ; and in 
this order we returned home, to the great delight of the village. 

Charley and I had reason to call it the most friendlj' of villages, 
I am sure ; for in a week's time the people were so glad to see us 
go by, though ever so frequently in the course of a day, that there 
were faces of greeting in every cottage. I had known many of 
the grown people before, and almost all the children ; but now the 
very steeple began to wear a familiar and affectionate look. Among 
my new friends was an old old woman who lived in such a little 
thatched and whitewashed dwelling, that when the outside shutter 
was turned up on its hinges, it shut up the whole house-front. 
This old lady had a grandson who was a sailor ; and I wrote a 
letter to him for her, and drew at the top of it the chimney-corner 
in which she had brought him up, and where his old stool yet 
occupied its old place. This was considered by the whole village 
the most wonderful achievement in the world ; but when an 
answer came back all the way from Plymouth, in which he men- 
tioned that he was going to take the picture all the way to Amer- 
ica, and from America would write again, I got all the credit that 
ought to have been given to the Post-office, and was invested with 
the merit of the whole system. 

Thus, what with being so much in the air, playing with so many 
children, gossiping with so many people, sitting on invitation in so 
many cottages, going on with Charley's education, and writing long 
letters to Ada every day, I had scarcely any time to think about 
that little loss of mine, and was almost always cheerful. If I did 
think of it at odd moments now and then, I had only to be busy 



470 BLEAK HOUSE. 

and forget it. I felt it more than I had hoped I should, once, 
when a child said "Mother, why is the lady not a pretty lady 
now, like she used to be ? " But when I found the child was not 
less fond of me, and drew its soft hand over my face with a kind 
of pitying protection in its touch, that soon set me up again. 
There were many little occurrences which suggested to me, with 
great consolation, how natural it is to gentle hearts to be consid- 
erate and delicate towards any inferiority. One of these particu- 
larly touched me. I happened to stroll into the little church when 
a marriage was just concluded, and the young couple had to sign 
the register. The bridegroom, to whom the pen was handed first, 
made a rude cross for his mark ; the bride, who came next, did the 
same. Now, I had known the bride when I was last there, not only 
as the prettiest girl in the place, but as having quite distinguished 
herself in the school ; and I could not help looking at her with 
some surprise. She came aside and whispered to me, while tears 
of honest love and admiration stood in her bright eyes, " He's a 
dear good fellow, miss ; but he can't write, yet — he's going to 
learn of me — and I wouldn't shame him for the world ! " Why, 
what had I to fear, I thought, when there was this nobility in the 
soul of a labouring man's daughter ! 

The air blew as freshly and revivingly upon me as it had ever 
blown, and the healthy colour came into my new face as it had 
come into my old one. Charley was wonderful to see, she was so 
radiant and so rosy; and we both enjoyed the whole day, and 
slept soundly the whole night. 

There was a favourite spot of mine in the park-woods of Chesney 
Wold, where a seat had been erected commanding a lovely view. 
The wood had been cleared and opened, to improve this point of 
sight ; and the bright sunny landscape beyond, was so beautiful 
that I rested there at least once every day. A picturesque part 
of the Hall, called The Ghost's Walk, was seen to advantage from 
this higher ground ; and the startling name, and the old legend in 
the Dedlock family which I had heard from Mr. Boythorn, account- 
ing for it, mingled with the view and gave it something of a mys- 
terious interest, in addition to its real charms. There was a bank 
here, too, which was a famous one for violets ; and as it was a 
daily delight of Charley's to gather wild flowers, she took as much 
to the spot as I did. 

It would be idle to inquire now why I never went close to the 
house, or never went inside it. The family were not there, I had 
heard on my arrival, and were not expected. I was far from 
being incurious or uninterested about the building; on the con- 
trary, I often sat in this place, wondering how the rooms ranged, 




LADY DEDLOCK IN THE WOOD. 



472 BLEAK HOUSE. 

and whether any echo like a footstep really did resound at times, 
as the story said, upon the lonely Ghost's Walk. The indefinable 
feeling with which Lady Dedlock had impressed me, may have had 
some influence in keeping me from the house even when she was 
absent. I am not sure. Her face and figure were associated with 
it, naturally ; but I cannot say that they repelled me from it, though 
something did. For whatever reason or no reason, I had never 
once gone near it, down to the day at which my story now arrives. 

I was resting at my favourite point, after a long ramble, and 
Charley was gathering violets at a little distance from me. I had 
been looking at the Ghost's Walk lying in a deep shade of masonry 
afar oft', and picturing to myself the female shape that was said to 
haunt it, when I became aware of a figure approaching through 
the wood. The perspective was so long, and so darkened by 
leaves, and the shadows of the branches on the ground made it so 
much more intricate to the eye, that at first I could not discern 
what figure it was. By little and little, it revealed itself to be 
a woman's — a lady's — Lady Dedlock's. She was alone, and 
coming to where I sat mth a much quicker step, I observed to 
my surprise, than was usual with her. 

I was fluttered by her being unexpectedly so near (she was 
almost within speaking distance before I knew her), and would 
have risen to continue my walk. But I could not. I was ren- 
dered motionless. Not so much by her hurried gesture of entreaty, 
not so much by her quick advance and outstretched hands, not so 
much by the great change in her manner, and the absence of her 
haughty self-restraint, as by a something in her face that I had 
pined for and dreamed of when I was a little child ; something I 
had never seen in any. face ; something I had never seen in hers 
before. 

A dread and faintness fell upon me, and I called to Charley. 
Lady Dedlock stopped, upon the instant, and changed back almost 
to what I had known her. 

"Miss Summerson, I am afraid I have startled you," she said, 
now advancing slowly. "You can scarcely be strong yet. You 
have been very ill, I know. I have been much concerned to 
hear it." 

I could no more have removed my eyes from her pale face, than 
I could have stirred from the bench on which I sat. She gave 
me her hand ; and its deadly coldness, so at variance with the 
enforced composure of her features, deepened the fascination that 
overpowered me. I cannot say what was in my whirling thoughts. 

" You are recovering again 1 " she asked, kindly. 

" I was quite well but a moment ago. Lady Dedlock." 



BLEAK HOUSE. 473 

" Is this your young attendant 1 " 

"Yes." 

"Will you send her on before, and walk towards your house 
with me?" 

"Charley," said I, "take your flowers home, and I will follow 
you directly." 

Charley, with her best curtsey, blushingly tied on her bonnet, 
and went her way. When she was gone, Lady Dedlock sat down 
on the seat beside me. 

I cannot tell in any words what the state of my mind was, when 
I saw in her hand my handkerchief, with which I had covered the 
dead baby. 

I looked at her ; but I could not see her, I could not hear her, 
I could not draw my breath. The beating of my heart was so 
violent and wild, that I felt as if my life were breaking from me. 
But when she caught me to her breast, kissed me, wept over me, 
compassionated me, and called me back to myself; when she fell 
down on her knees and cried to me, " my child, my child, I am 
your wicked and unhappy mother ! try to forgive me ! " — 
when I saw her at my feet on the bare earth in her great agony of 
mind, I felt, through all my tumult of emotion, a burst of gratitude 
to the providence of God that I was so changed as that I never 
could disgrace her by any trace of likeness ; as that nobody could 
ever now look at me, and look at her, and remotely think of any 
near tie between us. 

I raised my mother up, praying and beseeching her not to stoop 
before me in such affliction and humiliation. I did so, in broken 
incoherent words ; for, besides the trouble I was in, it frightened 
me to see her at mi/ feet. I told her — or I tried to tell her — 
that if it were for me, her child, under any circumstances to take 
upon me to forgive her, I did it, and had done it, many, many 
years. I told her that my heart overflowed with love for her ; 
that it was natural love, which nothing in the past had changed, 
or could change. That it was not for me, then resting for the first 
time on my mother's bosom, to take her to account for having 
given me life ; but that my duty was to bless her and receive her, 
though the whole world turned from her, and that I only asked 
her leave to do it. I held my mother in my embrace, and she 
held me in hers ; and among the still woods in the silence of the 
summer day, there seemed to be nothing but our two troubled 
minds that was not at peace. 

"To bless and receive me," groaned my mother, "it is far too 
late. I must travel my dark road alone, and it will lead me 
where it will. From day to day, sometimes from hour to hour, I 



474 BLEAK HOUSE. 

do not see the way before my guilty feet. This is the earthly 
punishment I have brought upon myself. I bear it, and I hide it." 

Even in the thinking of her endurance, she drew her habitual air 
of proud indifference about her like a veil, though she soon cast it 
off again. 

" I must keep this secret, if by any means it can be kept, not 
wholly for myself. I have a husband, wretched and dishonouring 
creature that I am ! " 

These words she uttered with a suppressed cry of despair, more 
terrible in its sound than any shriek. Covering her face with her 
hands, she shrunk down in my embrace as if she were unwilling 
that I should touch her ; nor could I, by my utmost persuasions, 
or by any endearments I could use, prevail upon her to rise. She 
said. No, no, no, she could only speak to me so ; she must be 
proud and disdainful everywhere else ; she would be humbbd and 
ashamed there, in the only natural moments of her life. 

My unhappy mother told me that in my illness she had been 
nearly frantic. She had but then known that her child was living. 
She could not have suspected me to be that child before. She had 
followed me down here, to speak to me but once in all her life. 
We never could associate, never could communicate, never prob- 
ably from that time forth could interchange another word, on earth. 
She put into my hands a letter she had written for my reading 
only ; and said, wlien I had read it, and destroyed it — but not so 
much for her sake, since she asked nothing, as for her husband's ; 
and my own — I must evermore consider her as dead. If I could . 
believe that she loved me, in this agony in which I saw her, with | 
a mother's love, she asked me to do that ; for then I might think ' 
of her with a greater pity, imagining what she suffered. She had . 
put herself beyond all hope, and beyond all hell?. Whether she 
preserved her secret until death, or it came to be discovered and • 
she brought dishonour and disgrace upon the name she had taken, 
it was her solitary struggle always ; and no affection could come 
near her, and no human creature covdd render her any aid. 

"But is the secret safe so far?" I asked. "Is it safe now, 
dearest mother ? " 

"No," rcphed my mother. "It has been very near discovery. 
It was saved by an accident. It may be lost by another accident 
— to-morrow, any day." 

" Do you dread a particular person 1 " 

" Hush ! Do not tremble and cry so much for me. I am not 
worthy of these tears," said my mother, kissing my hands. "I 
dread one person very much." 

"An enemy?" 



BLEAK HOUSE. 475 

" Not a friend. One who is too passionless to be either. He 
is Sir Leicester Dedlock's lawyer ; mechanically faithful without 
attachment, and very jealous of the profit, privilege, and reputa- 
tion of being master of the mysteries of great houses." 

" Has he any suspicions ? " 

" Many." 

" Not of you ? " I said alarmed. 

"Yes! He is always vigilant, and always near me. I may 
keep him at a standstill, but I can never shake him off." 

" Has he so little pity or compunction ? " 

" He has none, and no anger. He is indifferent to everything 
but his calling. His calling is the acquisition of secrets, and the 
holding possession of such power as they give him, with no sharer 
or opponent in it." 

" Could you trust in him ? " 

" I shall never try. The dark road I have trodden for so many 
years will end where it will. I follow it alone to the end, what- 
ever the end be. It may be near, it may be distant ; while the 
road lasts, nothing turns me." 

" Dear mother, are you so resolved ? " 

" I am resolved. I have long outbidden folly with folly, pride 
with pride, scorn with scorn, insolence with insolence, and have 
outlived many vanities with many more. I will outlive this dan- 
ger, and outdie it, if I can. It has closed around me, almost as 
awfully as if these woods of Chesney Wold had closed around the 
house ; but my course through it is the same. I have but one ; 
I can have but one." 

" Mr. Jarndyce — "I was beginning, when my mother hurriedly 
inquired : 

" Does he suspect 1 " 

"No," said I. "No, indeed! Be assured that he does not!" 
And I told her what he had related to me as his knowledge of my 
story. " But he is so good and sensible," said I, " that perhaps if 
he knew " 

My mother, who until this time had made no change in her 
position, raised her hand up to my lips, and stopped me. 

"Confide fully in him," she said, after a little while. "You 
have my free consent — a small gift from such a mother to her 
injured child ! — but do not tell me of it. Some pride is left in 
me, even yet." 

I explained, as nearly as I could then, or can recall now — for 
my agitation and distress throughout were so great that I scarcely 
understood myself, though eveiy word that was uttered in the 
mother's voice, so unfamiliar and so melancholy to me ; which in 



476 BLEAK HOUSE. 

my childhood I had never learned to love and recognise, had never 
been sung to sleep with, had never heard a blessing from, had 
never had a hope inspired by ; made an enduring impression on my 
memory — I say I explained, or tried to do it, how I had only 
hoped that Mr. Jarndyce, who had been the best of fathers to me, 
might be able to afford some counsel and support to her. But my 
mother answered no, it was impossible ; no one could help her. 
Through the desert that lay before her, she must go alone. 

" My child, my child ! " she said. " For the last time ! These 
kisses for the last time ! These arms upon my neck for the last 
time ! We shall meet no more. To hope to do what I seek to do, 
I must be what I liave been so long. Such is my reward and 
doom. If you hear of Lady Dedlock, brilliant, prosperous, and 
flattered ; think of your wretched mother, conscience-stricken, un- 
derneath that mask ! Think that the reality is in her suffering, 
in her useless remorse, in her murdering within her breast the only 
love and truth of which it is capable ! And then forgive her, if 
you can ; and cry to Heaven to forgive her, which it never can ! " 

We held one another for a little space yet, but she was so firm, 
that she took my hands away, and put them back against my 
breast, and, with a last kiss as she held them there, released them, 
and went from me into the wood. I was alone ; and, calm and 
quiet below me in the sun and shade, lay the old house, with its 
terraces and turrets, on which there had seemed to me to be such 
complete repose when I first saw it, but which now looked like the 
obdurate and unpitying watcher of my mother's misery. 

Stunned as I was, as weak and helpless at first as I had ever 
been in my sick chamber, the necessity of guarding against the 
danger of discovery, or even of the remotest suspicion, did me ser- 
vice. I took such precautions as I could to hide from Charley 
that I had been crying ; and I constrained myself to think of every 
sacred obligation that there was upon me to be careful and col- 
lected. It was not a little while before I could succeed, or could 
even restrain bursts of grief ; but after an hour or so, I was better, 
and felt that I might return. I went home very slowly, and told 
Charley, whom I found at the gate looking for me, that I had 
been tempted to extend my walk after Lady Dedlock had left me, 
and that I was over-tired, and would lie down. Safe in my own 
room, I read the letter. I clearly derived from it — and that was 
much then — that I had not been abandoned by my mother. Her 
elder and only sister, the godmother of my childhood, discovering 
signs of life in me when I had been laid aside as dead, had, in her 
stern sense of duty, with no desire or willingness that I should 
live, reared me in rigid secrecy, and had never again beheld my 



BLEAK HOUSE. 477 

mother's face from within a few lioiirs of my birth. So strangely 
did I hold my place in this world, that, until within a short time 
back, I had never, to my own mother's knowledge, breathed — 
had been buried — had never been endowed -vvdth life — had never 
borne a name. When she had first seen me in the church, she had 
been startled ; and had thoiiglit of what would have been like me, 
if it had ever lived, and had lived on ; but that was all, then. 

What more the letter told me, needs not to be repeated here. It 
has its own times and places in my story. 

My fii'st care was to burn what my mother had written, and to 
consume even its ashes. I hope it may not appear very unnatural 
or bad in me, that I then became heavily sorrowful to think I had 
ever been reared. That I felt as if I knew it would have been 
better and happier for many people, if indeed I had never breathed. 
That I had a terror of myself, as the danger and the possible dis- 
grace of my own mother, and of a proud family name. That I 
was so confused and shaken, as to be possessed by a belief that it 
was right, and had been intended, that I should die in my birth ; 
and that it was wrong, and not intended, that I should be then 
alive. 

These are the real feelings that I had. I fell asleep, worn out ; 
and when I awoke, I cried afresh to think that I was back in the 
world, with my load of trouble for others. I was more than ever 
frightened of myself, thinking anew of her, against whom I was 
a witness ; of the owner of Chesney Wold ; of the new and terri- 
ble meaning of the old words, now moaning in my ear like a surge 
upon the shore, "Your mother, Esther, was your disgrace, and 
you are hers. The time will come — and soon enough — when 
you will understand this better, and will feel it too, as no one save 
a woman can." With them, those other words returned, "Pray 
daily that the sins of others be not visited upon your head." I 
could not disentangle all that was about me ; and I felt as if the 
blame and the shame were all in me, and the visitation had come 
down. 

The day waned into a gloomy evening, overcast and sad, and I 
still contended with the same distress. I went out alone ; and, 
after walking a little in the park, watching the dark shades falling 
on the trees, and the fitful flight of the bats, which sometimes 
almost touched me, was attracted to the house for the first time. 
Perhaps I might not have gone near it, if I had been in a stronger 
frame of mind. As it was, I took the path that led close by it. 

I did not dare to linger or to look up, but I passed before the 
terrace garden with its fragrant odours, and its broad walks, and 
its well-kept beds and smooth turf; and I saw how beautiful and 



4'78 BLEAK HOUSE. 

grave it was, and how the old stone bahistrades and parapets, 
and wide flights of shallow steps, were seamed by time and 
weather ; and how the trained moss and ivy grew about them, and 
around the old stone pedestal of the sun-dial ; and I heard the 
fountain falling. Then the way went by long lines of dark 
windows, diversified by turreted towers, and porches, of eccentric 
shapes, where old stone lions and grotesque monsters bristled out- 
side dens of shadow, and snarled at the evening gloom over the 
escutcheons they held in their grip. Thence the path wound 
underneath a gateway, and through a courtyard where the princi- 
pal entrance was (I hurried quickly on), and by the stables where 
none but deep voices seemed to be, whether in the murmuring of 
the wind through the strong mass of ivy holding to a high red 
wall, or in the low complaining of the weathercock, or in the bark- 
ing of the dogs, or in the slow striking of a clock. So, encounter- 
ing presently a sweet smell of limes, whose rustling I could hear, 
I turned with the turning of the path, to the south front ; and 
there, above me, were the balustrades of the Gi-host's Walk, and 
one lighted window that might be my mother's. 

The way was paved here, like the terrace overhead, and my 
footsteps from being noiseless made an echoing sound upon the 
flags. Stopping to look at nothing, but seeing all I did see as I 
went, I was passing quickly on, and in a few moments should have 
passed the lighted window, when my echoing footsteps brought it 
suddenly into my mind that there was a dreadful truth in the legend 
of the Ghost's Walk ; that it was I, who was to bring calamity 
upon the stately house ; and that my warning feet were haunting 
it even then. Seized with an augmented terror of myself which 
turned me cold, I ran from myself and everything, retraced the 
way by which I had come, and never paused until I had gained 
the lodge-gate, and the park lay sullen and black behind me. 

Not before I was alone in my own room for the night, and had 
again been dejected and unhappy there, did I begin to know how 
wrong and thankless this state was. But, from my darling who 
was coming on the morrow, I found a joyful letter, full of such 
loving anticipation that I must have been of marble if it had not 
moved me ; from my Guardian, too, I found another letter, asking 
me to tell Dame Durden, if I should see that little woman any- 
where, that they had moped most pitiably without her, that the 
housekeeping was going to rack and ruin, that nobody else could 
manage the keys, and that everybody in and about the house 
declared it was not the same house, and was becoming rebellious 
for her return. Two such letters together made me think how far 
beyond my deserts I was beloved, and how happy I ought to be. 




THE ghost's walk. 



480 BLEAK HOUSE. 

That made me think of all my past life ; and that brought me, as 
it ought to have done before, into a better condition. 

For, I saw very well that I could not have been intended to die, 
or I should never have lived : not to say should never have been 
reserved for such a happy life. I saw very well how many things 
had worked together, for my welfare ; and that if the sins of the 
fathers were sometimes visited upon the children, the phrase did 
not mean what I had in the morning feared it meant. I knew I 
was as innocent of my birth as a queen of hers ; and that before 
my Heavenly Father I should not be j^unished for birth, nor a 
queen rewarded for it. I had had experience, in the shock of that 
very day, that I could, even thus soon, find comforting reconcile- 
ments to the change that had fallen on me. I renewed my reso- 
lutions, and prayed to be strengthened in them ; pouring out my 
heart for myself, and for my unhappy mother, and feeling that the 
darkness of the morning was passing away. It was not upon my 
sleep ; and when the next day's light awoke me, it was gone. 

My dear girl was to arrive at five o'clock in the afternoon. 
How to help myself through the intermediate time better than by 
taking a long walk along the road by which she was to come, I 
did not know ; so Charley and I and Stubbs — Stubbs, saddled, 
for we never drove him after the one great occasion — made a long 
expedition along that road, and back. On our return, we held a 
great review of the house and garden ; and saw that everything 
was in its prettiest condition, and had the bird out ready as an 
important part of the establishment. 

There were more than two full hours yet to elapse, before she 
could come ; and in that interval, which seemed a long one, I 
must confess I was nervously anxious about my altered looks. I 
loved my darling so well that I was more concerned for their effect 
on her than on any one. I was not in this slight distress because 
I at all reijined — I am quite certain I did not, that day — but, 
I thought, would she be wholly prepared? When she first saw 
me, might she not be a little shocked and disappointed ? Might 
it not prove a little worse than she had expected 1 Might she not 
look for her old Esther, and not find her ? Might she not have to 
grow used to me, and to begin all over again 1 

I knew the various expressions of my sweet girl's face so well, 
and it was such an honest face in its loveliness, that I was sure, 
beforehand, she could not hide that first look from me. And I 
considered whether, if it should signify any one of these meanings, 
which was so very likely, could I quite answer for myself? 

Well, I thought I could. After last night, I thought I could. 
But to wait and wait, and expect and expect, and think and think, I 



BLEAK HOUSE. 481 

was such bad preparation, that I resolved to go along the road 
again, and meet her. 

So I said to Charley, " Charley, I will go by myself and walk 
along the road until she comes." Charley highly approving of 
anything that pleased me, I went, and 'left her at home. 

But before I got to the second milestone, I had been in so many 
palpitations from seeing dust in the distance (though I knew it was 
not, and could not be, the coach yet), that I resolved to turn back 
and go home again. And when I had turned, I was in such fear 
of the coach coming up behind me (though I still knew that it 
neither would, nor could, do any such thing), that I ran the greater 
part of the way, to avoid being overtaken. 

Then, I considered, when I had got safe back again, this was a 
nice thing to have done ! Now I was hot, and had made the 
worst of it, instead of the best. 

At last, wlien I believed there was at least a quarter of an hour 
more yet, Charley all at once cried out to me as I was trembling in 
the garden, " Here she comes, miss ! Here she is ! " 

I did not mean to do it, but I ran up-stairs into my room, and 
hid myself behind the door. There I stood, trembling, even when 
I heard my darling calling as she came up-stairs, " Esther, my dear, 
.1 my love, where are you ? Little woman, dear Dame Durden ! " 

She ran in, and was running out again when she saw me. Ah, 
: my angel girl ! the dear old look, all love, all fondness, all affec- 
[ tion. Nothing else in it — no, nothing, nothing ! 

how happy I was, down upon the floor, with my sweet beau- 
tiful girl down upon the floor too, holding my scarred face to her 
] lovely cheek, bathing it with tears and kisses, rocking me to and 
Ifro like a child, calling me by every tender name that she could 
) think of, and pressing me to her faithful heart. 



CHAPTER XXXVII. 

JARNDYCE AND JARNDYCE. 

If the secret that I had to keep had been mine, I must have con- 
Med it to Ada before we had been long together. But it was not 
inine ; and I did not feel that I had a right to tell it, even to my 
Ijruardian, unless some great emergency arose. It was a weight to 
)ear alone ; still my present duty appeared to be plain, and, blest 
n the attachment of my dear, I did not want an impulse and 
ncouragement to do it. Though often when she was asleep, 
;-nd aU was quiet, the remembrance of my mother kept me wak- 

2i 



482 BLEAK HOUSE. 

ing, and made the night sorrowful, I did not yield to it at another 
time ; and Ada found me what I used to be — except, of course, in 
that particular of Avhich I have said enough, and which I have no 
intention of mentioning any^ more, just now, if I can help it. 

The difficulty that I felt in being quite composed that first 
evening, when Ada asked me, over our work, if the family were at 
the House, and when I was obliged to answer yes, I believed so, for 
Lady Dedlock had spoken to me in the woods the day before yes- 
terday, was great. Greater still, when Ada asked me what she 
had said, and when I replied that she had been kind and inter- 
ested ; and when Ada, while admitting her beauty and elegance, 
remarked upon her proud manner, and her imperious chilling air. 
But Charley helped me through unconsciously, by telling us that 
Lady Dedlock had only stayed at the House two nights, on her way 
from London to visit at some other great house in the next county ; 
and that she had left early in the morning after we had seen her 
at our view, as we called it. Charley verified the adage about 
little pitchers, I am sure ; for she heard of more sayings and 
doings, in a day, than would have come to my ears in a month. 

We were to stay a month at Mr. Boy thorn's. My pet had. 
scarcely been there a bright week, as I recollect the time, when' 
one evening after we had finished helping the gardener in watering 
his flowers, and just as the candles were lighted, Charley, appear- 
ing with a very important air behind Ada's chair, beckoned me 
mysteriously out of the room. 

" Oh ! if you please, miss," said Charley, in a whisper, with her 
eyes at their roundest and largest. "You're wanted at the Ded- 
lock Arms." 

"Why, Charley," said I, "who can possibly want me at the 
public-house 1 " 

"I don't know, miss," returned Charley, putting her head for- 
ward, and folding her hands tight upon the band of her little apron ; 
which she always did, in the enjoyment of anything mysterious 
or confidential, "but it's a gentleman, miss, and his compliments, 
and will you please to come without saying anything about it." 

" Whose compliments, Charley 1 " 

"His'n, miss," returned Charley: whose grammatical education 
was advancing, but not very rapidly. 

" And how do you come to be the messenger, Charley ? " 

" I am not the messenger, if you please, miss," returned my little 
maid. "It was W. Grubble, miss." , i 

" And who is W. Grubble, Charley 1 " ' ] 

"Mister Grubble, miss," returned Charley. "Don't you know, ; 
miss? The Dedlock Arms, by W. Grubble," which Charley deliv- 
ered as if she were slowly spelling out the sign. 



BLEAK HOUSE. 483 

" Aye ? The landlord, Charley 1 " 

"Yes, miss. If you please, miss, his wife is a beautiful woman, 
but she broke her ankle and it never joined. And her brother's 
the sawyer, that was put in the cage, miss, and they expect he'll 
drink himself to death entirely on beer," said Charley. 

Not knowing what might be the matter, and being easily appre- 
hensive now, I thought it best to go to this place by myself. I 
bade Charley be quick with my bonnet and veil, and my shawl ; 
and having put them on, went away down the little hilly street, 
where I was as much at home as in Mr. Boythorn's garden. 

Mr. Grabble was standing in his shirt sleeves at the door of his 
very clean little tavern, waiting for me. He lifted off his hat with 
both hands when he saw me coming, and carrying it so, as if it were 
an iron vessel (it looked as heavy), preceded me along the sanded 
passage to his best parlour : a neat carpeted room, with more 
plants in it than were quite convenient, a coloured print of Queen 
Caroline, several shells, a good many tea-trays, two stuffed and 
dried fish in glass cases, and either a curious egg or a curious 
pumpkin (but I don't know which, and I doubt if many people 
did) hanging from tlie ceiling. I knew Mr. Grabble very well by 
sight, from his often standing at his door. A pleasant-looking, 
stoutish, middle-aged man, who never seemed to consider himself 
cosily dressed for his own fireside without his hat and top-boots, 
but who never wore a coat except at church. 

He snuffed the candle, and backing away a little to see how it 
looked, backed out of the room — unexpectedly to me, for I was 
going to ask him by whom he had been sent. The door of the 
opposite parlour being then opened, I heard some voices, familiar 
in my ears, I thought, which stopped. A quick light step ap- 
proached the room in which I was, and who should stand before 
me but Richard ! 

" My dear Esther ! " he said, " my best friend ! " and he really 
was so warm-hearted and earnest, that in the first surprise and 
pleasure of his brotherly greeting, I could scarcely find breath to 
tell him that Ada was well. 

" Answering my very thoughts — always the same dear girl ! " 
said Richard, leading me to a chair, and seating himself beside me. 

I put my veil up, but not quite. 

"Always the same dear girl ! " said Richard, just as heartily as 
before. 

I put my veil up altogether, and laying my hand on Richard's 
sleeve, and looking in his face, told him how much I thanked him 
for his kind welcome, and how greatly I rejoiced to see him ; the 
more so, because of the determination I had made in my illness, 
which I now conveyed to him. 



484 BLEAK HOUSE. 

"My love," said Richard, "there is no one with whom I have a 
greater wish to talk, than you, for I want you to understand me." 

"And I want you, Richard," said I, shaking my head, "to 
understand some one else." 

" Since you refer so immediately to John Jarndyce," said 
Richard — "I suppose you mean him ? " 

" Of course I do." 

" Then, I may say at once that I am glad of it, because it is on 
that subject that I am anxious to be understood. By you, mind 
— you, my dear ! I am not accountable to Mr. Jarndyce, or Mr. 
Anybody." 

I was pained to find him taking this tone, and he observed it. 

"Well, well, my dear," said Richard, "we won't go into that, 
now. I want to appear quietly in your country house here, with 
you under my arm, and give my charming cousin a surprise. I 
suppose your loyalty to John Jarndyce will allow that ? " 

"My dear Richard," I returned, "you know you would be 
heartily welcome at his house — your home, if you will but con- 
sider it so ; and you are as heartily welcome here." 

" Spoken like the best of little women ! " cried Richard, gaily. 

I asked him how he liked his profession ? 

" Oh, I like it well enough ! " said Richard. " It's all right. 
It does as well as anything else, for a time. I don't know that I 
shall care about it when I come to be settled ; but I can sell out 
then, and — however, never mind all that botheration at present." 

So young and handsome, and in all respects so perfectly the 
opposite of Miss Flite ! And yet, in the clouded, eager, seeking 
look that passed over him, so dreadfully like her ! j 

" I am in town on leave, just now," said Richard. 1 

"Indeed?" 

" Yes. I have run over to look after my — my Chancery inter- 
ests, before the long vacation," said Richard, forcing a careless 
laugh. "We are beginning to spin along with that old suit at 
last, I promise you." 

No wonder that I shook my head ! 

"As you say, it's not a pleasant subject." Richard spoke with 
the same shade crossing his face as before. " Let it go to the four 
winds for to-night. — Puff ! Gone ! — Who do you suppose is with 
me?" 

" Was it Mr. Skimpole's voice I heard ? " 

" That's the man ! He does me more good than anybody. 
What a fascinating child it is ! " 

I asked Richard if any one knew of their coming down to- 
gether? He answered, No, nobody. He had been to call upon 



BLEAK HOUSE. 485 

the dear old infant — so he called Mr. Skimpole — and the dear 
old infant had told him where we were, and he had told the dear 
old infant he was bent on coming to see us, and the dear old 
infant had directly wanted to come too ; and so he had brought 
him. "And he is worth — not to say his sordid expenses — but 
thrice his weight in gold," said Richard. "He is such a cheery 
fellow. No worldliness about him. Fresh and green-hearted ! " 

I certainly did not see the proof of Mr. Skimpole's unworldliness 
in his having his expenses paid by Richard ; but I made no remark 
about that. Indeed, he came in, and turned our conversation. 
He was charmed to see me ; said he had been shedding delicious 
tears of joy and sympathy, at intervals for six weeks, on my 
account ; had never been so happy as in hearing of my progress ; 
began to understand the mixture of good and evil in the world 
now ; felt that he appreciated health the more, when somebody 
else was ill ; didn't know but what it might be in the scheme of 
things that A should squint to make B happier in looking straight ; 
or that C should cany a wooden leg, to make D better satisfied 
with his flesh and blood in a silk stocking. 

" My dear Miss Summerson, here is our friend Richard," said 
Mr. Skimpole, "full of the brightest visions of the future, which 
he evokes out of the darkness of Chancery. Now that's delight- 
ful, that's inspiriting, that's full of poetry ! In old times, the 
woods and solitudes were made joyous to the shepherd by the 
imaginary piping and dancing of Pan and the Nymphs. This 
present shepherd, our pastoral Richard, brightens the dull Inns of 
Court by making Fortune and her train sport through them to 
the melodious notes of a judgment from the bench. That's very 
pleasant, you know ! Some ill-conditioned growling fellow may say 
to me, ' What's the use of these legal and equitable abuses 1 How 
do you defend them 1 ' I reply, ' My growling friend, I don't defend 
them, but they are very agreeable to me. There is a shepherd- 
youth, a friend of mine, who transmutes them into something 
highly fascinating to my simplicity. I don't say it is for this 
that they exist — ■ for I am a child among you worldly grumblers, 
and not called upon to account to you or myself for anything — 
but it may be so.' " 

I began seriously to think that Richard could scarcely have found 
a worse friend than this. It made me uneasy that at such a time, 
when he most required some right principle and purpose, he should 
have this captivating looseness and putting-off of everything, this 
airy dispensing with all principle and purpose, at his elbow. I 
thought I could understand how such a nature as my Guardian's, 
experienced in the world, and forced to contemplate the miserable 



486 BLEAK HOUSE. 

evasions and contentions of the family misfortune, found an im- 
mense relief in Mr. Skimpole's avowal of his weaknesses and 
display of guileless candour ; but I could not satisfy myself that 
it was as artless as it seemed ; or that it did not serve Mr. Skim- 
pole's idle turn quite as well as any other part, and with less 
trouble. 

They both walked back with me ; and Mr. Skimpole leaving us 
at the gate, I walked softly in with Richard, and said, " Ada, my 
love, I have brought a gentleman to visit you." It was not diffi- 
cult to read the blushing, startled face. She loved him dearly, and 
he knew it, and I knew it. It was a very transparent business, 
that meeting as cousins only. 

I almost mistrusted myself, as growing quite wicked in my sus- 
picions, but I was not so sure that Richard loved her dearly. He 
admired her very much — any one must have done that — and I 
dare say, would have renewed their youthful engagement with great 
pride and ardour, but that he knew how she would respect her 
promise to my Guardian. Still, I had a tormenting idea that the 
influence upon him extended even here : that he was postponing 
his best truth and earnestness, in this as in all things, until Jarn- 
dyce and Jarndyce should be off his mind. Ah me ! what Richard 
would have been without that blight, I never shall know now ! 

He told Ada, in his most ingenuous way, that he had not come to 
make any secret inroad on the terms she had accepted (rather too 
implicitly and confidingly, he thought) from Mr. Jarndyce ; that he 
had come openly to see her, and to see me, and to justify himself 
for the present terms on which he stood with Mr. Jarndyce. As . 
the dear old infant would be with us directly, he begged that I ' 
would make an appointment for the morning, when he might set 
himself right, through the means of an unreserved conversation 
with me. I proposed to walk with him in the park at seven 
o'clock, and this was arranged. Mr. Skimpole soon afterwards, 
appeared, and made us merry for an hour. He particularly 
requested to see Little Coavinses (meaning Charley), and told 
her, with a patriarchal air, that he had given her late father all 
the business in his power ; and that if one of her little brothers 
would make haste to get set-up in the same profession, he hoped 
he should still be able to put a good deal of employment in his 
way. 

"For I am constantly being taken in these nets," said Mr. Skim- 
pole, looking beamingly at us over a glass of wine-and-water, " and 
am constantly being bailed out — like a boat. Or paid off — like 
a ship's company. Somebody always does it for me. / can't do 
it, you know, for I never have any money. But Somebody does it. 



BLEAK HOUSE. 487 

I get out by Somebody's means ; I am not like the starling ; I get 
out. If you were to ask me who Somebody is, upon my word, I 
couldn't tell you. Let us drink to Somebody. God bless him ! " 

Richard was a little late in the morning, but I had not to wait 
for him long, and we turned into the park. The air was bright 
and dewy, and the sky without a cloud. The birds sang delight- 
fully ; the sparkles in the fern, the grass, and trees, were exquisite 
to see ; the richness of the woods seemed to have increased twenty- 
fold since yesterday, as if, in the still night when they had looked 
so massively hushed in sleep. Nature, through all the minute 
details of every wonderful leaf, had been more wakeful than usual 
for the glory of that day. 

"This is a lovely place," said Richard, looking round. "None 
of the jar and discord of law-suits here ! " 

But there was other trouble. 

"I tell you what, my dear girl," said Richard, "when I get 
affairs in general settled, I shall come down here, I think, and 
rest." 

" Would it not be better to rest now ? " I asked. 

"Oh, as to resting •reo?<'," said Richard, "or as to doing anything 
very definite noiv, that's not easy. In short, it can't be done ; / 
can't do it, at least." 

" Why not ? " said I. 

" You know why not, Esther. If you were living in an unfin- 
ished house, liable to have the roof put on or taken off — to be 
from top to bottom pulled down or built up — to-morrow, next 
day, next week, next month, next year — you would find it hard 
to rest or settle. So do I. Now? There's no now for us 
suitors." 

I could almost have believed in the attraction on which my poor 
little wandering friend had expatiated, when I saw again the dark- 
ened look of last night. Terrible to think, it had in it also, a 
shade of that unfortunate man who had died. 

"My dear Richard," said I, "this is a bad beginning of our 
conversation." 

"I knew you would tell me so, Dame Durden." 

"And not I alone, dear Richard. It was not I who cautioned 
you once, never to found a hope or expectation on the family 
curse." 

" There you come back to John Jarndyce ! " said Richard, impa- 
tiently. " Well ! We must approach him sooner or later, for he 
is the staple of what I have to say ; and it's as well at once. My 
dear Esther, how can you be so blind 1 Don't you see that he is 
an interested party, and that it may be very well for him to wish 



488 BLEAK HOUSE. 

me to know nothing of the suit, and care nothing about it, but that 
it may not be quite so well for me ? " 

" Richard," I remonstrated, "is it possible that you can ever 
have seen him and heard him, that you can ever have lived under 
his roof and known him, and can yet breathe, even to me in this 
solitary place where there is no one to hear us, such unworthy 
suspicions ? " 

He reddened deeply, as if his natural generosity felt a pang of 
reproach. He was silent for a little while, before he replied in a 
subdued voice : 

" Esther, I am sure you know that I am not a mean fellow, and 
that I have some sense of suspicion and distrust being poor quali- 
ties in one of my years." 

"I know it very well," said I. "I am not more sure of 
anything." 

" That's a dear girl ! " retorted Richard, " and like you, because 
it gives me comfort. I had need to get some scrap of comfort out 
of all this business, for it's a bad one at the best, as I have no 
occasion to tell you." 

"I know perfectly," said I, "I know as well, Richard — what 
shall I say 1 as well as you do — that such misconstructions are 
foreign to your nature. And I know, as well as you know, what 
so changes it." 

"Come, sister, come," said Richard, a little more gaily, "you 
will be fair with me at all events. If I have the misfortune to be 
under that influence, so has he. If it has a little twisted me, it 
may have a little twisted him, too. I don't say that he is not an 
honourable man, out of all this complication and uncertainty ; I ' 
am sure he is. But . it taints everybody. You know it taints 
everybody. You have heard him say so fifty times. Then why 
should he escape 1 " 

"Because," said I, "his is an uncommon character, and he has 
resolutely kept himself outside the circle, Richard." 

" Oh, because and because ! " replied Richard, in his vivacious 
way. " I am not sure, my dear girl, but that it may be wise and 
specious to preserve that outward indifference. It may cause 
other parties interested to become lax about their interests ; and 
people may die off, and points may drag themselves out of memory, 
and many things may smoothly happen that are convenient 
enough." 

I was so touched with pity for Richard, that I could not reproach 
him any more, even by a look. I remembered my Guardian's gen- 
tleness towards his errors, and with what perfect freedom from 
resentment he had spoken of them. 



BLEAK HOUSE. 489 

"Esther," Richard resumed, "you are not to suppose that I 
have come here to make under-handed charges against John Jarn- 
dyce. I have only come to justify myself. What I say is, it was 
all very well, and we got on very well, while I was a boy, utterly 
regardless of this same suit ; but as soon as I began to take an 
interest in it, and to look into it, then it was quite another thing. 
Then John Jarndyce discovers that Ada and I must break off, and 
that if I don't amend that very objectionable course, I am not fit 
for her. Now, Esther, I don't mean to amend that very objection- 
able course : I will not hold John Jarndyce's favour on those 
unfair terms of compromise, which he has no right to dictate. 
Whether it pleases him or displeases him, I must maintain my 
rights, and Ada's. I have been thinking about it a good deal, and 
this is the conclusion I have come to." 

Poor dear Richard ! He had indeed been thinking about it a 
good deal. His face, his voice, his manner all showed that, too 
plainly. 

" So I tell him honourably (you are to know I have written to 
him about all this), that we are at issue, and that we had better 
be at issue openly than covertly. I thank him for his good-will 
and his protection, and he goes his road, and I go mine. The fact 
is, our roads are not the same. Under one of the wills in dispute, 
I should take much more than he. I don't mean to say that it 
is the one to be established ; but there it is, and it has its chance." 

"I have not to learn from you, my dear Richard," said I, "of 
your letter. I had heard of it already, without an offended or 
angry word." 

" Indeed 1 " replied Richard, softening. " I am glad I said he 
was an honourable man, out of all this wretched affair. But I 
always say that, and have never doubted it. Now, my dear 
Esther, I know these views of mine appear extremely harsh to 
you, and will to Ada when you tell her what has passed between 
us. But if you had gone into the case as I have, if you had only 
applied yourself to the papers as I did when I was at Kenge's, if 
you only knew what an accumulation of charges and counter- 
charges, and suspicions and cross-suspicions, they involve, you 
would think me moderate in comparison." 

" Perhaps so," said I. " But do you think that, among those 
many papers, there is much truth and justice, Richard?" 

" There is truth and justice somewhere in the case, Esther " 

" Or was once, long ago," said I. 

"Is — is — must be somewhere," pursued Richard, impetuously, 
" and must be brought out. To allow Ada to be made a bribe and 
hush-money of, is not the way to bring it out. You say the suit 



490 BLEAK HOUSE. 

is changing me ; John Jarndyce says it changes, has changed, 
and will change, everybody who has any share in it. Then the 
greater right I have on my side, when I resolve to do all I can to 
bring it to an end." 

" All you can, Richard ! Do you think that in these many 
years no others have done all they could? Has the difficulty 
grown easier because of so many failures 1 " 

" It can't last for ever," returned Richard, with a fierceness 
kindling in him which again presented to me that last sad re- 
minder. " I am young and earnest ; and energy and determina- 
tion have done wonders many a time. Others have only half 
thrown themselves into it. I devote myself to it. I make it the 
object of my life." 

" 0, Richard, my dear, so much the worse, so much the worse ! " 
"No, no, no, don't you be afraid for me," he returned, affection- 
ately. "You're a dear, good, wise, quiet, blessed girl; but you 
have your prepossessions. So I come round to John Jarndyce. I 
tell you, my good Esther, when he and I were on those terms 
which he found so convenient, we were not on natural terms." 
"Are division and animosity your natural terms, Richard 1" 
" No, I don't say that. I mean that all this business puts us 
on unnatural terms, with which natural relations are incompatible. 
See another reason for urging it on ! I may find out, when it's 
over, that I have been mistaken in John Jarndyce. My head may 
be clearer when I am free of it, and I may then agree with what 
you say to-day. Very well. Then I shall acknowledge it, and 
make him reparation." i 

Everything postponed to that imaginary time ! Everything 
held in confusion and indecision until then ! 

"Now, my best of confidantes," said Richard, "I want my 
cousin, Ada, to understand that I am not captious, fickle, and 
wilful, about John Jarndyce ; but that I have this purpose and 
reason at my back. I wish to represent myself to her through 
you, because she has a great esteem and respect for her cousin 
John ; and I know you will soften the course I take, even though 
you disapprove of it; and — and in short," said Richard, who had 
been hesitating through these words, "I — I don't like to represent 
myself in this litigious, contentious, doubting character, to a con- 
fiding girl like Ada." 

I told him that he was more like himself in those latter words, 
than in anything he had said yet. 

" Why," acknowledged Richard, " that may be true enough, my I 
love. I rather feel it to be so. But I shall be able to give my- 
self fair-play by-and-bye. I shall come all right again, then, don't 
you be afraid." ' 



BLEAK HOUSE. 491 

I asked him if this were all he wished me to tell Ada ? 

" Not quite," said Richard. " I am bound not to withhold from 
her that John Jarndyce answered my letter in his usual manner, 
addressing me as ' My dear Rick,' trying to argue me out of my 
opinions, and telling me that they should make no difference in 
him. (All very well of course, but not altering the case.) I also 
want Ada to know, that if I see her seldom just now, I am looking 
after her interests as well as my own — we two being in the same 
boat exactly — and that I hope she will not suppose, from any 
flying rumours she may hear, that I am at all light-headed or im- 
prudent ; on the contrary, I am always looking forward to the 
termination of the suit, and always planning in that direction. 
Being of age now, and having taken the step I have taken, I con- 
sider myself free from any accountability to John Jarndyce ; but 
Ada being still a ward of the Court, I don't yet ask her to renew 
our engagement. When she is free to act for herself, I shall be 
myself once more, and we shall both be in very diff"erent worldly 
circumstances, I believe. If you will tell her all this with the advan- 
tage of your considerate way, you will do me a very great and a 
very kind service, my dear Esther ; and I shall knock Jarndyce 
and Jarndyce on the head with greater vigour. Of course I ask 
for no secrecy at Bleak House." 

" Richard," said I, "you place great confidence in me, but I fear 
you will not take advice from me ? " 

" It's impossible that I can on this subject, my dear girl. On 
any other, readily." 

As if there were any other in his life ! As if his whole career 
and character were not being dyed one colour ! 

" But I may ask you a question, Richard ? " 

"I think so," said he, laughing. "I don't know who may not, 
if you may not." 

" You say, yourself, you are not leading a very settled life ? " 

" How can I, my dear Esther, with nothing settled ! " 

" Are you in debt again 1 " 

"Why of course I am," said Richard, astonished at my sim- 
pHcity. 

" Is it of course 1 " 

" My dear child, certainly. I can't throw myself into an object 
so completely, without expense. You forget, or perhaps you don't 
know, that under either of the wills Ada and I take something. 
It's only a question between the larger sum and the smaller. I 
shall be within the mark any way. Bless your heart, my excel- 
lent girl," said Richard, quite amused with me, "I shall be all 
right ! I shall pull through, my dear ! " 



492 BLEAK HOUSE. 

I felt so deeply sensible of the danger in which he stood, that I 
tried, in Ada's name, in my Guardian's, in my own, by every fer- 
vent means that I could think of, to warn him of it, and to show 
him some of his mistakes. He received everything I said with 
patience and gentleness, but it all rebounded from him without 
taking the least effect. I could not wonder at this, after the 
reception his pre-occupied mind had given to my Guardian's letter j 
but I determined to try Ada's influence yet. 

So, when our walk brought us round to the vUlage again, and I 
went home to breakfast, I prepared Ada for the account I was 
going to give her, and told her exactly what reason we had to 
dread that Richard was losing himself, and scattering his whole 
life to the winds. It made her very unhappy, of course ; though 
she had a far, far greater reliance on his correcting his errors than 
I could have — which was so natural and loving in my dear ! — 
and she presently wrote him this little letter : 

My Dearest Cousin, 

Esther has told me all you said to her this morning. I write 
this, to repeat most earnestly for myself all that she said to you, 
and to let you know how sure I am that you will sooner or later 
find our cousin John a pattern of truth, sincerity and goodness, 
when you will deeply deeply grieve to have done him (without 
intending it) so much wrong. 

I do not quite know how to write what I wish to say next, but 
I tmst you will understand it as I mean it. I have some fears, 
my dearest cousin, that it may be partly for my sake you are now 
laying up so much unhappiness for yourself — and, if for yourself, 
for me. In case this should be so, or in case you should entertain 
much thought of me in what you are doing, I most earnestly entreat 
and beg you to desist. You can do nothing for my sake that will 
make me half so happy, as for ever turning your back upon the 
shadow in which we both were born. Do not be angry with me 
for saying this. Pray, pray, dear Richard, for my sake, and for 
your own, and in a natural repugnance for that source of trouble 
which had its share in making us both orphans when we were very 
young, pray, pray, let it go for ever. We have reason to know by 
this time, that there is no good in it, and no hope ; that there is 
nothing to be got from it but sorrow. 

My dearest cousin, it is needless for me to say that you are quite 
free, and that it is very likely you may find some one whom you 
will love much better than your first fancy. I am quite sure, if 
you will let me say so, that the object of your choice would greatly 
prefer to follow your fortunes far and wide, however moderate or 



BLEAK HOUSE. 493 

poor, and see you happy, doing your duty and pursuing your 
chosen way ; than to have the hope of being, or even to be, very 
rich with you (if such a thing were possible), at the cost of drag- 
ging years of procrastination and anxiety, and of your indifference 
to other aims. You may wonder at my saying this so confidently 
with so little knowledge or experience, but I know it for a cer- 
tainty from my own heart. 

Ever, my dearest cousin. 

Your most affectionate Ada. 

This note brought Richard to us very soon ; but it made little 
change in him, if any. We would fairly try, he said, who was 
right and who was wrong — he would show us — we should see ! 
He was animated and glowing, as if Ada's tenderness had gratified 
him; but I could only hope, with a sigh, that the letter might 
have some stronger effect upon his mind on re-perusal, than it 
assuredly had then. 

As they were to remain with us that day, and had taken their 
places to return by the coach next morning, I sought an oppor- 
tunity of speaking to Mr. Skimpole. Our out-of-door life easily 
threw one in my way ; and I delicately said, that there was a 
responsibility in encouraging Richard. 

" Responsibility, my dear Miss Summerson ? '' he repeated, 
catching at the word with the pleasantest smile, " I am the last 
man in the world for such a thing. I never was responsible in my 
life — I can't be." 

" I am afraid everybody is obliged to be," said I, timidly enough : 
he being so much older and more clever than I. 

"No, really?" said Mr. Skimpole, receiving this new light with 
a most agreeable jocularity of surprise. "But every man's not 
obliged to be solvent ? I am not. I never was. See, my dear 
Miss Summerson," he took a handful of loose silver and halfpence 
from his pocket, " there's so much money. I have not an idea 
how much. I have not the power of counting. Call it four and 
ninepence — - call it four pound nine. They tell me I owe more 
than that. I dare say I do. I dare say I owe as much as good- 
natured people will let me owe. If they don't stop, why should 
1 1 There you have Harold Skimpole in little. If that's responsi- 
bility, I am responsible." 

The perfect ease of manner with which he put the money up 
again, and looked at me with a smile on his refined face, as if he 
had been mentioning a curious little fact about somebody else, 
almost made me feel as if he really had nothing to do with it. 

"Now when you mention responsibility," he resumed, "I am 



494 BLEAK HOUSE. 

disposed to say, that I never had the happiness of knowing any- 
one whom I should consider so refreshingly responsible as yourself. 
You appear to me to be the very touchstone of responsibility. 
When I see you, my dear Miss Summerson, intent upon the perfect 
working of the whole little orderly system of which you are the 
centre, I feel inclined to say to myself — in fact I do say to myself, 
very often — that's responsibility ! " 

It was difficult, after this, to explain what I meant ; but I per- 
sisted so far as to say, that we all hoped he would check and not 
confirm Richard in the sanguine views he entertained just then. 

"Most willingly," he retorted, " if I could. But, my dear Miss 
Summerson, I have no art, no disguise. If he takes me by the 
hand, and leads me through Westminster Hall in an airy procession 
after Fortune, I must go. If he says, ' Skimpole, join the dance ! ' 
I must join it. Common sense wouldn't, I know ; but I have no 
common sense." 

" It was very unfortunate for Richard," I said. 

" Do you think so 1 " returned Mr. Skimpole. " Don't say that, 
don't say that. Let us suppose him keeping company with Com- 
mon Sense — an excellent man — a good deal wrinkled — dread- 
fully practical — change for a ten-pound note in every pocket — 
ruled account-book in his hand — say, upon the whole, resem- 
bling a tax-gatherer. Our dear Richard, sanguine, ardent, over- 
leaping obstacles, bursting with poetry like a young bud, says to 
this highly respectable companion, 'I see a golden prospect before 
me ; it's very bright, it's very beautiful, it's very joyous ; here I 
go, bounding over the landscape to come at it ! ' The respectable 
companion instantly knocks him down with the ruled account- 
book ; tells him, in a . literal prosaic way, that he sees no such 
thing ; shows him it's nothing but fees, fraud, horsehair wigs, and 
black gowns. Now you know that's a painful change; — -sensible 
in the last degree, I have no doubt, but disagreeable. / can't do 
it. I haven't got the ruled account-book, I have none of the tax- 
gathering elements in my composition, I am not at all respectable, 
and I don't want to be. Odd perhaps, but so it is ! " 

It was idle to say more ; so I proposed that we should join Ada 
and Richard, who were a little in advance, and I gave up Mr. 
Skimpole in despair. He had been over the Hall in the course of 
the morning, and whimsically described the family pictures as we 
walked. There were such portentous shepherdesses among the 
Ladies Dedlock dead and gone, he told us, that peaceful crooks 
became weapons of assault in their hands. They tended their 
flocks severely in buckram and powder, and put their sticking- 
plaster patches on to terrify commoners, as the chiefs of some other 



BLEAK HOUSE. 495 

tribes put on their war-paint. There was a Sir Somebody Dedlock, 
with a battle, a sprung-mine, vokimes of smoke, flashes of light- 
ning, a town on fire, and a stormed fort, all in full action Taetween his 
horse's two hind legs : showing, he supposed, how little a Dedlock 
made of such trifles. The whole race he represented as having evi- 
dently been, in life, what he called "stuS'ed people," — a large col- 
lection, glassy eyed, set up in the most approved manner on their 
various twigs and perches, veiy correct, perfectly free from anima- 
tion, and always in glass cases. 

I was not so easy now, during any reference to the name, but that 
I felt it a relief when Richard, with an exclamation of surprise, 
hirried away to meet a stranger, whom he first descried coming 
sl)wly towards us. 

" Dear me ! " said Mr. Skimpole. " Vholes ! " 

We asked if that were a friend of Richard's 1 

"Friend and legal adviser," said Mr. Skimpole. "Now, my 
dear Miss Summerson, if you want common sense, responsibility, 
and respectability, all united — if you want an exemplary man — 
Vholes is the man." 

We had not known, we said, that Richard was assisted by any 
gentleman of that name. 

" When he emerged from legal infancy," returned Mr. Skimpole, 
" he parted from our conversational friend Kenge, and took up, I 
believe, with Vholes. Indeed, I know he did, because I introduced 
him to Vholes." 

" Had you known him long 1 " asked Ada. 

" Vholes ? My dear Miss Clare, I had had that kind of acquaint- 
ance with him, which I have had with several gentlemen of his pro- 
fession. He had done something or other, in a veiy agreeable, civil 
manner — taken proceedings, I think, is the expression — which 
ended in the proceeding of his taking me. Somebody was so good 
as to step in and pay the money — something and fourpence was 
the amount ; I forget the pounds and shillings, but I know it ended 
with fourpence, because it struck me at the time as being so odd 
that I could owe anybody fourpence — and after that, I brought 
them together. Vholes asked me for the introduction, and I gave 
it. Now I come to think of it," he looked inquiringly at us with 
his frankest smile as he made the discovery, "Vholes bribed me, 
perhaps 1 He gave me something, and called it commission. Was 
it a five-pound note ? Do you know, I think it must have been a 
five-pound note ! " 

His further consideration of the point was prevented by Richard's 
coming back to us in an excited state, and hastily presenting Mr. 
Vholes — a sallow man with pinched lips that looked as if they 



496 BLEAK HOUSE. 

were cold, a red eruption here and there upon his face, tall and thin, 
about fifty years of age, high-shouldered, and stooping. Dressed in 
black, black-gloved, and buttoned to the chin, there was nothing so 
remarkable in him as a lifeless manner, and a slow fixed way he 
had of looking at Richard. 

"I hope I don't disturb you, ladies," said Mr. Vholes ; and now 
I observed that he was further remarkable for an inward manner 
of speaking. " I arranged with Mr. Carstone that he should always 
know when his cause was in the Chancellor's paper, and being in- 
formed by one of my clerks last night after post time that it stooo, 
rather unexpectedly, in the paper for to-morrow, I put myself inio 
the coach early this morning and came down to confer with him.' 

" Yes ! " said Richard, flushed, and looking triumphantly at Ada 
and me, " we don't do these things in the old slow way, now. "We 
spin along, now ! Mr. Vholes, we must hire something to get over to 
the post town in, and catch the mail to-night, and go up by it ! " 

"Anything you please, sir," returned Mr. Vholes. "I am quite 
at your service." 

" Let me see ! " said Richard, looking at his Avatch. " If I run! 
down to the Dedlock, and get my portmanteau fastened up, and 
order a gig, or a chaise, or whatever's to be got, we shall have an 
hour then before starting. I'll come back to tea. Cousin Ada, | 
will you and Esther take care of Mr. Vholes while I am gone ? " 

He was away directly, in his heat and hurry, and was soon lost 
in the dusk of evening. We who were left walked on towards the 
house. 

" Is Mr. Carstone's presence necessary to-morrow, sir ? " said I. 
" Can it do any good 1 " 

" No, miss," Mr. Vholes replied. " I am not aware that it can." 

Both Ada and I expressed our regret that he should go, then, 
only to be disappointed. 

" Mr. Carstone has laid down the principle of watching his oAvn 
interests," said Mr. Vholes, " and when a client lays down his own 
principle, and it is not immoral, it devolves upon me to carry it out. 
I wish in business to be exact and open. I am a widower with 
three daughters — Emma, Jane, and Caroline — and my desire is 
so to discharge the duties of life as to leave them a good name. 
This appears to be a pleasant spot, miss." 

The remark being made to me, in consequence of my being next 
him as we walked, I assented, and enumerated its chief attractions. 

" Indeed 1 " said Mr. Vholes. " I have the privilege of support- 
ing an aged father in the Vale of Taunton — his native place — 
and I admire that country very much. I had no idea there was 
anything so attractive here." 



BLEAK HOUSE. 497 

To keep up the conversation, I asked Mr. Vholes if he would 
like to live altogether in the country ? 

"There, miss," said he, "you touch me on a tender string. My 
health is not good (my digestion being much impaired), and if I 
had only myself to consider, I should take refuge in niral habits ; 
especially as the cares of business have prevented me from ever 
coming much into contact with general society, and particularly 
with ladies' society, which I have most wished to mix in. But 
with my three daughters, Emma, Jane, and Caroline — and ray aged 
father — I cannot afford to be selfish. It is true, I have no longer 
to maintain a dear grandmother who died in her hundred-and-second 
year ; but enough remains to render it indispensable that the mill 
should be always going." 

It required some attention to hear him, on account of his inward 
speaking and his lifeless manner. 

"You will excuse my having mentioned my daughters," he said. 
" They are my weak point. I wish to leave the poor girls some 
little independence, as well as a good name." 

We now arrived at Mr. Boythorn's house, where the tea-table, 
all prepared, was awaiting us. Richard came in, restless and hur- 
ried, shortly afterwards, and leaning over Mr. Vholes's chair, whis- 
pered something in his ear. Mr. Vholes replied aloud — -or as 
nearly aloud I suppose as he ever replied to anything — "You 
will drive me, will you, sir? It is all the same to me, sir. Any- 
thing you please. I am quite at your service." 

We understood from what followed that Mr. Skimpole was to 
be left until the morning to occupy the two places which had been 
already paid for. As Ada and I were both in low spirits concern- 
ing Richard, and very sorry so to part with him, we made it as plain 
as we politely could that we should leave Mr. Skimpole to the 
Dedlock Arms, and retire when the night-travellers were gone. 

Richard's high spirits carrying everything before them, we all 
went out together to the top of the hill above the village, where 
he had ordered a gig to wait ; and where we found a man with 
a lantern standing at the head of the gaunt pale horse that had 
been harnessed to it. 

I never shall forget those two seated side by side in the lantern's 
light ; Richard, all flush and fire and laughter, with the reins in 
his hand ; Mr. Vholes, quite still, black-gloved, and buttoned up, 
looking at him as if he were looking at his prey and charming it. 
I have before me the whole picture of the warm dark night, the 
summer lightning, the dusty track of road closed in by hedgerows 
and high trees, the gaunt pale horse with his ears pricked up, and 
the driving away at speed to Jarndyce and Jamdyce. 

2k 



498 BLEAK HOUSE. 

My dear girl told me, that night, how Richard's being thereafter 
prosperous or ruined, befriended or deserted, could only make this 
difference to her, that the more he needed love from one unchang- 
ing heart, the more love that unchanging heart would have to give 
him ; how he thought of her through his present errors, and she 
would think of him at all times : never of herself, if she could 
devote herself to him : never of her own delights, if she could 
minister to his. 

And she kept her word ? 

I look along the road before me, where the distance already 
shortens and the journey's end is growing visible ; and, true and 
good above the dead sea of the Chancery suit, and all the ashy 
friut it casts ashore, I think I see my darling. 



CHAPTER XXXVIII. 

A STRUGGLE. 

When our time came for returning to Bleak House again, we 
were punctual to the day, and were received with an overpowering 
welcome. I was perfectly restored to health and strength ; and 
finding my housekeeping keys laid ready for me in my room, rang 
myself in as if I had been a new year, with a merry little peal. 
"Once more, duty, duty, Esther," said I; "and if you are not 
overjoyed to do it, more than cheerfully and contentedly, through 
anything and everything, you ought to be. That's all I have to 
say to you, my dear ! " 

The first few mornings were mornings of so much bustle and 
business, devoted to such settlements of accounts, such repeated 
journeys to and fro between the Growlery and all other parts of 
the house, so many rearrangements of drawers and presses, and 
such a general new beginning altogether, that I had not a mo- 
ment's leisure. But when these arrangements were completed, 
and everything was in order, I paid a visit of a few hours to 
London, which something in the letter I had destroyed at Chesney 
Wold had induced me to decide upon in my own mind. 

I made Caddy Jellyby — her maiden name was so natural to 
me that I always called her by it — the pretext for this visit ; 
and wrote her a note previously, asking the favour of her company 
on a little business expedition. Leaving home very early in the 
morning, I got to London by stage-coach in such good time, that 
I walked to Newman Street with the day before me. 

Caddy, who had not seen me since her wedding-day, was so glad 



BLEAK HOUSE. 499 

and so affectionate that I was half inclined to fear I should 
make her husband jealous. But he was, in his way, just as bad 
— I mean as good ; and in short it was the old stoiy, and nobody 
would leave me any possibility of doing anything meritorious. 

The elder Mr. Turveydrop was in bed, I found, and Caddy was 
milling his chocolate, which a melancholy little boy who was an 
apprentice — it seemed such a curious thing to be apprenticed 
to the trade of dancing — was waiting to carry up-stairs. Her 
father-in-law was extremely kind and considerate, Caddy told me, 
and they lived most happily together. (When she spoke of their 
living together, she meant that the old gentleman had all the good 
things and all the good lodging, while she and her husband had 
what they could get, and were poked into two corner rooms over 
the Mews.) 

"And how is your mama, Caddy?" said I. 

"Why, I hear of her, Esther," replied Caddy, "through Pa; 
but I see very little of her. We are good friends, I am glad to 
say ; but Ma thinks there is something absurd in my having mar- 
ried a dancing-master, and she is rather afraid of its extending to 
her." 

It struck me that if Mrs. Jellyby had discharged her own natural 
duties and obligations, before she swept the horizon with a tele- 
scope in search of others, she would have taken the best precau- 
tions against becoming absurd ; but I need scarcely observe that 
I kept this to myself. 

" And your papa, Caddy ? " 

" He comes here every evening," returned Caddy, " and is so 
fond of sitting in the corner there, that it's a treat to see him." 

Looking at the corner, I plainly perceived the mark of Mr. 
Jellyby's head against the wall. It was consolatory to know that 
he had found such a resting-place for it. 

" And you, Caddy," said I, " you are always busy, I'll be bound ? " 

" Well, my dear," returned Caddy, " I am indeed ; for to tell you 
a grand secret, I am qualifying myself to give lessons. Prince's 
health is not strong, and I want to be able to assist him. What 
with schools, and classes here, and private pupils, and the appren- 
tices, he really has too much to do, poor fellow ! " 

The notion of the apprentices was still so odd to me, that I 
asked Caddy if there were many of them ? 

" Four," said Caddy. " One in-door, and three out. They are 
very good children ; only when they get together they ivill play — 
children-like — instead of attending to their work. So the little 
boy you saw just now waltzes by himself in the empty kitchen, 
and we distribute the others over the house as well as we can." 



500 BLEAK HOUSE. 

" That is only for their steps, of course? " said I. 

" Only for their steps," said Caddy. " In that way they prac- 
tise, so many hours at a time, whatever steps they happen to be 
upon. They dance in the academy ; and at this time of year we 
do Figures at five every morning." 

" Why, what a laborious life ! " I exclaimed. 

"I assure you, my dear," returned Caddy, smiling, "when the 
out-door apprentices ring us up in the morning (the bell rings into 
our room, not to disturb old Mr. Turveydrop), and when I put up 
the window, and see them standing on th(^. door-step with their 
little pumps under their arms, I am actually reminded of the 
Sweeps." 

All this presented the art to me in a singular light, to be sure. 
Caddy enjoyed the effect of her communication, and cheerfully 
recounted the particulars of her own studies. 

" You see, my dear, to save expense, I ought to know something 
of the Piano, and I ought to know something of the Kit too, and 
consequently I have to practise those two instruments as well as 
the details of our profession. If Ma had been like anybody else, 
I might have had some little musical knowledge to begin upon. 
However, I hadn't any ; and that part of the work is, at first, a 
little discouraging, I must allow. But I have a very good ear, and 
I am used to drudgery — I have to thank Ma for that, at all 
events — and where there's a will there's a way, you know, Esther, 
the world over." Saying these words, Caddy laughingly sat down 
at a little jingling square piano, and really rattled off a quadrille 
with great spirit. Then she good-humouredly and blushingly got 
up again, and while she still laughed herself, said, " Don't laugh at 
me, please ; that's a dear girl ! " 

I would sooner have cried, but I did neither. I encouraged her, 
and praised her with all my heart. For I conscientiously believed, 
dancing-master's wife though she was, and dancing-mistress though 
in her limited ambition she aspired to be, she had struck out a 
natural, wholesome, loving course of industry and perseverance that 
was quite as good as a Mission. 

"My dear," said Caddy, delighted, "you can't think how you 
cheer me. I shall owe you, you don't know how much. What 
changes, Esther, even in my small world ! You recollect that first 
night, when I was so unpolite and inky ? Who would have thought, 
then, of my ever teaching people to dance, of all other possibilities 
and impossibilities ! " 

Her husband, wlio had left us while we had this chat, now com- 
ing back, preparatory to exercising the apprentices in the ball-room, 
Caddy informed me she was quite at my disposal. But it was not 



! £ 



BLEAK HOUSE. 501 

my time yet, I was glad to tell her ; for I should have been vexed 
to take her away then. Therefore we three adjourned to the ap- 
prentices together, and I made one in the dance. 

The apprentices were the queerest little people. Besides the 
melancholy boy, who I hoped had not been made so by waltzing 
alone in the empty kitchen, there were two other boys, and one 
dirty little limp girl in a gauzy dress. Such a precocious little 
girl, with such a dowdy bonnet on (that, too, of a gauzy texture), 
who brought her sandalled shoes in an old threadbare velvet reticule. 
Such mean little boys, when they were not dancing, with string, 
and marbles, and cramp-bones in their pockets, and the most un- 
tidy legs and feet — and heels particularly. I asked Caddy what 
had made their parents choose this profession for them ? Caddy 
said she didn't know ; perhaps they were designed for teachers ; 
perhaps for the stage. They were all people in humble circum- 
stances, and the melancholy boy's mother kept a ginger-beer 
shop. 

We danced for an hour with great gravity ; the melancholy child 
doing wonders with his lower extremities, in which there appeared 
to be some sense of enjoyment though it never rose above his waist. 
Caddy, while she was observant of her husband, and was evidently 
founded upon him, had acquired a grace and self-possession of her 
own, which, united to her pretty face and figure, was uncommonly 
agreeable. She already relieved him of much of the instruction 
of these young people ; and he seldom interfered, except to walk 
his part in the figure if he had anything to do in it. He always 
played the tune. The affectation of the gauzy child, and her con- 
descension to the boys, was a sight. And thus we danced an hour 
by the clock. 

When the practice was concluded, Caddy's husband made him- 
self ready to go out of town to a school, and Caddy ran away to 
get ready to go out with me. I sat in the ball-room in the interval, 
contemplating the apprentices. The two out-door boys went upon 
the staircase to put on their half-boots, and pull the in-door boy's 
hair : as I judged from the nature of his objections. Returning 
with their jackets buttoned, and their pumps stuck in them, they 
then produced packets of cold bread and meat, and bivouacked 
under a painted lyre on the wall. The little gauzy child, having 
whisked her sandals into the reticule and put on a trodden down 
pair of shoes, shook her head into the dowdy bonnet at one shake ; 
and answering my inquiry whether she liked dancing, by replying, 
" Not with boys," tied it across her chin and went home con- 
temptuous. 

" Old Mr. Turveydrop is so sorry," said Caddy, " that he has 



602 BLEAK HOUSE. 

not finished dressing yet, and cannot have the pleasure of seeing 
you before you go. You are such a favourite of his, Esther." 

I expressed myself much obliged to him, but did not think it 
necessary to add that I readily dispensed with this attention. 

" It takes him a long time to dress," said Caddy, " because he is 
very much looked up to in such things, you know, and has a rep- 
utation to support. You can't think how kind he is to Pa. He 
talks to Pa, of an evening, about the Prince Regent, and I never 
saw Pa so interested." 

There was something in the picture of Mr. Turveydrop bestowing 
his Deportment on Mr. Jellyby, that quite took my fancy. I asked 
Caddy if he brought her papa out much ? 

"No," said Caddy, "I don't know that he does that; but he 
talks to Pa, and Pa greatly admires him, and listens, and likes it. 
Of course I am aware that Pa has hardly any claims to Deport- 
ment, but they get on together delightfully. You can't think what 
good companions they make. I never saw Pa take snuff before in 
my life ; but he takes one pinch out of Mr. Turveydrop's box reg- 
ularly, and keeps putting it to his nose and taking it away again, 
all the evening." 

That old Mr. Turveydrop sliould ever, in the chances and changes 
of life, have come to the rescue of Mr. Jellyby from Borrioboola- 
Gha, appeared to me to be one of the pleasantest of oddities. 

"As to Peepy," said Caddy, with a little hesitation, " whom I 
was most afraid of — next to having any family of my own, Esther 
— as an inconvenience to Mr. Turveydrop, the kindness of the old 
gentleman to that child is beyond everything. He asks to see him, 
my dear ! He lets him take the newspaper up to him in bed ; he 
gives him the crusts of his toast to eat ; he sends him on little 
errands about the house ; he tells him to come to me for sixpences. 
In short," said Caddy, cheerily, "and not to prose, I am a very 
fortunate girl, and ought to be very grateful. Where are we going, 
Esther 1 " 

" To the Old Street Road," said I ; " where I have a few words 
to say to the solicitor's clerk, who was sent to meet me at the 
coach-office on the very day when I came to London, and first saw 
you, my dear. Now I think of it, the gentleman who brought us 
to your house." 

" Then, indeed, I seem to be naturally the person to go with you," 
returned Caddy. 

To the Old Street Road we went, and there inquired at Mrs. 
Guppy's residence for Mrs. Guppy. Mrs. Guppy, occupying the 
parlours, and having indeed been visibly in danger of cracking her- 
self like a nut in the front parlour-door by peeping out before she 



BLEAK HOUSE. 603 

was asked for, immediately presented herself, and requested us to 
walk in. She was an old lady in a large cap, with rather a red 
nose and rather an unsteady eye, but smiling all over. Her close 
little sitting-room was prepared for a visit ; and there was a por- 
trait of her son in it, which, I had almost written here, was more 
like than life : it insisted upon him with such obstinacy, and was 
so determined not to let him off. 

Not only was the portrait there, but we found the original there 
too. He was dressed in a great many colours, and was discovered 
at a table reading law-papers with his forefinger to his forehead. 

"Miss Summerson," said Mr. Guppy, rising, "this is indeed an 
Oasis. Mother, will you be so good as to put a chair for the other 
lady, and get out of the gangway." 

Mrs. Guppy, whose incessant smiling gave her quite a waggish 
appearance, did as her son requested ; and then sat down in a cor- 
ner, holding her pocket-handkerchief to her chest, like a fomenta- 
tion, with both hands. 

I presented Caddy, and Mr. Guppy said that any friend of mine 
was more than welcome. I then proceeded to the object of my 
visit. 

" I took the liberty of sending you a note, sir," said I. 

Mr. Guppy acknowledged its receipt by taking it out of his 
breast-pocket, putting it to his lips, and returning it to his pocket 
with a bow. Mr. Guppy 's mother was so diverted that she rolled 
her head as she smiled, and made a silent appeal to Caddy with 
her elbow. 

" Could I speak to you alone for a moment 1 " said I. 

Anything like the jocoseness of Mr. Guppy's mother now, I 
think I never saw. She made no sound of laughter ; but she 
rolled her head, and shook it, and put her handkerchief to her 
mouth, and appealed to Caddy with her elbow, and her hand, and 
her shoulder, and was so unspeakably entertained altogether that 
it was with some difficulty she could marshal Caddy through the 
little folding- door into her bedroom adjoining. 

"Miss Summerson," said Mr. Guppy, "you will excuse the way- 
wardness of a parent ever mindful of a son's appiness. My mother, 
though highly exasperating to the feelings, is actuated by maternal 
dictates." 

I could hardly have believed that anybody could in a moment 
have turned so red, or changed so much, as Mr. Guppy did when I 
now put up my veil. 

" I asked the favour of seeing you for a few moments here," said 
I, "in preference to calling at Mr. Kenge's, because, remembering 
what you said on an occasion when you spoke to me in confidence, 



604 BLEAK HOUSE. 

I feared I might otherwise cause you some embarrassment, Mr. 
Guppy." 

I caused him embarrassment enough as it was, I am sure. I 
never saw such faltering, such confusion, such amazement and 
apprehension. 

"Miss Summerson," stammered Mr. Guppy, "I — I — beg 
your pardon, but in our profession — we — we — find it necessary 
to be explicit. You have referred to an occasion, miss, when I — 
when I did myself the honour of making a declaration which " 

Something seemed to rise in his throat that he could not possibly 
swallow. He put his hand there, coughed, made faces, tried again 
to swallow it, coughed again, made faces again, looked all round the 
room, and fluttered his papers. 

"A kind of a giddy sensation has come upon me, miss," he 
explained, "which rather knocks me over. I — er — a little sub- 
ject to this sort of thing — er — By George ! " 

I gave him a little time to recover. He consumed it in putting 
his hand to his forehead and taking it away again, and in backing 
his chair into the corner behind him. 

"My intention was to remark, miss," said Mr. Guppy, " — 
dear me — something bronchial, I think — hem ! — to remark that 
you was so good on that occasion as to repel and repudiate that 
declaration. You — you wouldn't perhaps object to admit that? 
Though no witnesses are present, it might be a satisfaction to — 
to your mind — if you was to put in that admission." 

" There can be no doubt," said I, " that I declined your proposal 
without any reservation or qualification whatever, Mr. Guppy." 

" Thank you, miss," he returned, measuring the table with his 
troubled hands. " So far that's satisfactory, and it does you 
credit. Er — this is certainly bronchial ! — must be in the tubes 
— er — you wouldn't perhaps be offended if I was to mention — 
not that it's necessary, for your own good sense or any person's 
sense must show 'em that — if I was to mention that such declara- . 
tion on my part was final, and there terminated 1 " 

" I quite understand that," said I. 

" Perhaps — er — it may not be worth the form, but it might 
be a satisfaction to your mind — perhaps j'^ou wouldn't object to 
admit that, miss 1 " said Mr. Guppy. 

" I admit it most fully and freely," said I. 

" Thank you," returned Mr. Guppy. " Very honourable, I am 
sure. I regret that my arrangements in life, combined with cir- 
cumstances over which I have no control, will put it out of my 
power ever to fall back upon that offer, or to renew it in any shape 
or form whatever ; but it will ever be a retrospect entwined — er 



BLEAK HOUSE. 506 

— with friendship's bowers." Mr. Guppy's broncliitis came to his 
relief, and stopped his measurement of the table. 

" I may now perhaps mention what I wished to say to you V I 
began. 

"I shall be honoured, I am sure," said Mr. Guppy. "I am so 
persuaded that your own good sense and right feeling, miss, will 

— will keep you as square as possible — that I can have nothing 
but pleasure, I am sure, in hearing any observations you may wish 
to offer." 

"You were so good as to imply, on that occasion " 

"Excuse me, miss," said Mr. Guppy, "but we had better not 
travel out of the record into implication. I cannot admit that I 
implied anything." 

" You said on that occasion," I recommenced, " that you might 
possibly have the means of advancing my interests, and promoting 
my fortunes, by making discoveries of which I should be the sub- 
ject. I presume that you founded that belief upon your general 
knowledge of my being an orphan girl, indebted for everything to 
the benevolence of Mr. Jarndyce. Now, the beginning and the 
end of what I have come to beg of you is, Mr. Guppy, that you 
will have the kindness to relinquish all idea of so serving me. I 
have thought of this sometimes, and I have thought of it most, 
lately — since I have been ill. At length I have decided, in case 
you should at any time recall that purpose, and act upon it in any 
way, to come to you, and assure you that you are altogether mis- 
taken. You could make no discovery in reference to me that would 
do me the least service, or give me the least pleasure. I am 
acquainted with my personal history ; and I have it in my power 
to assure you that you never can advance my welfare by such 
means. You may, perhaps, have abandoned this jDroject a long 
time. If so, excuse my giving you unnecessary trouble. If not, 
I entreat you, on the assurance I have given you, henceforth to lay 
it aside. I beg you to do this, for my peace." 

"I am bound to confess," said Mr. Guppy, "that you express 
yourself, miss, with that good sense and right feeling for which I 
gave you credit. Nothing can be more satisfactory than such right 
feeling, and if I mistook any intentions on your part just now, I 
am prepared to tender a full apology. I should wish to be under- 
stood, miss, as hereby offering that apology — limiting it, as your 
own good sense and right feeling will point out the necessity of, to 
the present proceedings." 

I must say for Mr. Guppy that the shuffling manner he had 
had upon him improved very much. He seemed truly glad to be 
able to do something I asked, and he looked ashamed. 



506 BLEAK HOUSE. 

" If you will allow me to finish what I have to say at once, so that 
I may have no occasion to resume," I went on, seeing him about to 
speak, " you will do me a kindness, sir. I come to you as privately 
as possible, because you announced this impression of yours to me 
in a confidence which I have really wished to respect — and which 
I always have respected, as you remember. I have mentioned my 
illness. There really is no reason why I should hesitate to say 
that I know very well that any little delicacy I might have had in 
making a request to you, is quite removed. Therefore I make the 
entreaty I have now preferred ; and I hope you will have sufficient 
consideration for me, to accede to it." 

I must do Mr. Guppy the further justice of saying that he had 
looked more and more ashamed, and that he looked most ashamed, 
and very earnest, when he now replied with a burning face : 

" Upon my word and honour, upon my life, upon my soul, Miss 
Summerson, as I am a living man, I'll act according to your wish ! 
I'll never go another step in opjiosition to it. I'll take my oath 
to it, if it will be any satisfaction to you. In what I promise at 
this present time touching the matters now in question," continued 
Mr. Guppy, rapidly, as if he were repeating a familiar form of 
words, " I speak the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the 
truth, so " 

"I am quite satisfied," said I, rising at this point, "and I thank 
you very much. Caddy, my dear, I am ready ! " 

Mr. Guppy's mother returned with Caddy (now making me the 
recipient of her silent laughter and her nudges), and we took our 
leave. Mr. Guppy saw us to the door with the air of one who was 
either imperfectly awake or walking in his sleep ; and we left him 
there, staring. 

But in a minute he came after us down the street without any 
hat, and with his long hair all blown about, and stopped us, saying 
fervently : 

" Miss Summerson, upon my honour and soul, you may depend 
upon me ! " 

"I do," said I, "quite confidently." 

" I beg your pardon, miss," said Mr. Guppj', going with one leg 
and staying with the other, "but this lady being present — your 
own witness — it might be a satisfaction to your mind (which I 
should wish to set at rest) if you was to repeat those admissions." 

"Well, Caddy," said I, turning to her, "perhaps you will not 
be surprised when I tell you, my dear, that there never has been 
any engagement — " 

" No proposal or promise of marriage whatsoever," suggested 
Mr. Guppy. 



BLEAK HOUSE. 507 

"No proposal or promise of marriage whatsoever," said I, "be- 
tween this gentleman — " 

"William Guppy of Pen ton Place, Pentonville, in the county of 
Middlesex," he murmured. 

" Between this gentleman, Mr. William Guppy of Pen ton Place, 
Pentonville, in the county of Middlesex, and myself." 

"Thank you, miss," said Mr. Guppy. "Very full, — er — ex- 
cuse me — lady's name, christian and surname both ? " 

I gave them. 

" Married woman, I believe ? " said Mr. Guppy. " Married 
woman. Thank you. Formerly Caroline Jellyby, spinster, then 
of Thavies Inn, within the city of London, but extra-parochial ; 
now of Newman Street, Oxford Street. Much obliged." 

He ran home and came running back again. 

" Touching that matter, you know, I really and truly am very 
sorry that my arrangements in life, combined with circumstances 
over which I have no control, should prevent a renewal of what 
was wholly terminated some time back," said Mr. Guppy to me, 
forlornly and despondently, "but it couldn't be. Now could it, 
you know ! I only put it to you." 

I replied it certainly could not. The subject did not admit of 
a doubt. He thanked me, and ran to his mother's again — and 
back again. 

"It's very honourable of you, miss, I am sure," said Mr. 
Guppy. " If an altar could be erected in the bowers of friendship 
— but, upon my soul, you may rely upon me in every respect, 
save and except the tender passion only ! " 

The struggle in Mr. Guppy's breast, and the numerous oscilla- 
tions it occasioned him between his mother's door and us, were 
sufficiently conspicuous in the windy street (iDarticularly as his hair 
wanted cutting), to make us hurry away. I did so with a light- 
ened heart ; but when we last looked back, Mr. Guppy was stiU 
oscillating in the same troubled state of mind. 



CHAPTER XXXIX. 

ATTORNEY AND CLIENT. 

The name of Me. Vholes, preceded by the legend Ground 
Floor, is inscribed upon a doorpost in Symond's Inn, Chancery 
Lane : a little, pale, wall-eyed, woe-begone inn, like a large dust- 
binn of two compartments and a sifter. It looks as if Symond 
were a sparing man in his day, and constructed his inn of old 



608 BLEAK HOUSE. 

building materials, which took kindly to the dry rot and to dirt 
and all things decaying and dismal, and perpetuated Symond's 
memory with congenial shabbiness. Quartered in this dingy hatch- 
ment commemorative of Symond, are the legal bearings of Mr. 
Vholes. 

Mr. Vholes's office, in disposition retiring and in situation retired, 
is squeezed up in a corner, and blinks at a dead wall. Three feet 
of knotty floored dark passage bring the client to Mr. Vholes's jet 
black door, in an angle profoundly dark on the brightest midsum- 
mer morning, and encumbered by a black bulkhead of cellarage 
staircase, against which belated civilians generally strike their 
brows. Mr. Vholes's chambers are on so small a scale, that one 
clerk can open the door without getting off" his stool, while the 
other who elbows him at the same desk has equal facilities for 
poking the fire. A smell as of unwholesome sheep, blending with 
the smell of must and dust, is referable to the nightly (and often 
daily) consumption of mutton fat in candles, and to the fretting of 
parchment forms and skins in greasy drawers. The atmosphere 
is otherwise stale and close. The place was last painted or white- 
washed beyond the memory of man, and the two chimneys smoke, 
and there is a loose outer surface of soot everywhere, and the dull 
cracked windows in their heavy frames have but one piece of char- 
acter in them, which is a determination to be always dirty, and 
always shut, unless coerced. This accounts for the phenomenon 
of the weaker of the two usually having a bundle of firewood 
thrust between its jaws in hot weather. 

Mr. Vholes is a very respectable man. He has not a large 
business, but he is a veiy respectable man. He is allowed by the 
greater attorneys who have made good fortunes, or are making 
them, to be a most respectable man. He never misses a chance 
in his practice ; which is a mark of respectability. He never takes 
any pleasure ; which is another mark of respectability. He is 
reserved and serious ; which is another mark of respectability. 
His digestion is impaired, which is highly respectable. And he 
is making hay of the grass which is flesh, for his three daughters. 
And his father is dependent on him in the Vale of Taunton. 

The one great principle of the English law is, to make business 
for itself There is no other principle distinctly, certainly, and 
consistently maintained through all its narrow turnings. Viewed 
by this liglat it becomes a coherent scheme, and not the monstrous 
maze the laity are apt to think it. Let them but once clearly 
perceive that its grand principle is to make business for itself at 
their expense, and surely they will cease to grumble. 

But, not perceiving this quite plainly — only seeing it by halves 



BLEAK HOUSE. 509 

in a confused way — the laity sometimes suffer in peace and pocket, 
with a bad grace, and do grumble very much. Then this respecta- 
bility of Mr. Vholes is brought into powerful play against them. 
" Repeal this statute, my good sir 1 " says Mr. Kenge, to a smart- 
ing client, " repeal it, my dear sir ? Never, with my consent. 
Alter this law, sir, and what will be the effect of your rash pro- 
ceeding on a class of practitioners very worthily represented, allow 
me to say to you, by the opposite attorney in the case, Mr. Vholes ? 
Sir, that class of practitioners would be swept from the face of the 
earth. Now you cannot afford — I would say, the social system 
cannot afford — to lose an order of men like Mr. Vholes. Dili- 
gent, persevering, steady, acute in business. My dear sir, I under- 
stand your present feelings against the existing state of things, 
which I grant to be a little hard in your case ; but I can never 
raise my voice for the demolition of a class of men like Mr. Vholes." 
The respectability of Mr. Vholes has even been cited with crushing 
effect before Parliamentary committees, as in the following blue 
minutes of a distinguished attorney's evidence. " Question (num- 
ber five hundred and seventeen thousand eight hundred and sixty- 
nine). If I understand you, these forms of practice indisputably 
occasion delay? Answer. Yes, some delay. Question. And 
great expense? Answer. Most assuredly they cannot be gone 
through for nothing. Question. And unspeakable vexation 1 
Answer. I am not prepared to say that. They have never given 
me any vexation ; quite the contrary. Question. But you think 
that their abolition would damage a class of practitioners 1 Answer. 
I have no doubt of it. Question. Can you instance any type of 
that class ? Answer. Yes. I would unhesitatingly mention Mr. 
Vholes. He would be ruined. Question. Mr. Vholes is consid- 
ered, in the profession, a respectable man 1 Answer " — which 
proved fatal to the inquiry for ten years — " Mr. Vholes is consid- 
ered, in the profession, a most respectable man." 

So in familiar conversation, private authorities no less disinter- 
ested will remark that they don't know what this age is coming 
to ; that we are plunging down precipices ; that now here is some- 
thing else gone ; that these changes are death to people like Vholes : 
a man of imdoubted respectability, with a ftither in the Vale of 
Taunton, and three daughters at home. Take a few steps more 
in this direction, say they, and what is to become of Vholes's 
father? Is he to perish ? And -of Vholes's daughters? Are they 
to be shirt-makers, or governesses? As though, Mr. Vholes and 
his relations being minor cannibal chiefs, and it being proposed to 
abolish cannibalism, indignant champions were to put the case 
thus : Make man-eating unlawful, and you starve the Vholeses ! 



510 BLEAK HOUSE. 

In a word, Mr. Vholes, with his three daughters and his father 
in the Vale of Taunton, is continually doing duty, like a piece of 
timber, to shore up some decayed foundation that has become a 
pitfall and a nuisance. And with a great many people, in a great 
many instances, the question is never one of a change from Wrong 
to Right (which is quite an extraneous consideration), but is always 
one of injury or advantage to that eminently respectable legion, 
Vholes. 

The Chancellor is, within these ten minutes, "up" for the long 
vacation. Mr. Vholes, and his young client, and several blue bags 
hastily stuft'ed, out of all regularity of form, as the larger sort of 
serpents are in their first gorged state, have returned to the official 
den. Mr. Vholes, quiet and unmoved, as a man of so much 
respectability ought to be, takes off his close black gloves as if he 
were skinning his hands, lifts off" his tight hat as if he were scalp- 
ing himself, and sits down at his desk. The client throws his 
hat and gloves upon the ground — tosses them anywhere, without" 
looking after them or caring where they go ; flings himself into a 
chair, half sighing and half groaning ; rests his aching head upon 
his hand, and looks the portrait of Young Despair. 

"Again nothing done!" says Richard. "Nothing, nothing 
done ! " 

"Don't say nothing done, sir," returns the placid Vholes. 
" That is scarcely fair, sir, scarcely fair ! " 

"Why, what is done?" says Richard, turning gloomily upon 
him. 

" That may not be the whole question," returns Vholes. " The 
question may branch off into what is doing, what is doing 1" ■ 

" And what is doing? " asks the moody client. ' 

Vholes, sitting with his arms on his desk, quietly bringing the 
tips of his five right fingers to meet the tips of his five left fingers, 
and quietly separating them again, and fixedly and slowly looking 
at his client, replies : 

" A good deal is doing, sir. We have put our shoulders to the 
wheel, Mr. Carstone, and the wheel is going round." 

" Yes, with Ixion on it. How am I to get through the next 
four or five accursed months ? " exclaims the young man, rising from 
his chair and walking about the room. 

"Mr. C," returns Vholes, following him close with his eyes 
wherever he goes, "your spirits are hasty, and I am sorry for it on 
your account. Excuse me if I recommend you not to chafe so 
much, not to be so impetuous, not to wear yourself out so. You 
should have more patience. You should sustain yourself better." 

" I ought to imitate you, in fact, Mr. Vholes ? " says Richard, 



BLEAK HOUSE. 611 

sitting down again with an impatient laugh, and beating the 
Devil's Tattoo with his boot on the patternless carpet. 

"Sir," returns Vholes, always looking at the client, as if he 
were making a lingering meal of him with his eyes as well as with 
his professional appetite. "Sir," returns Vholes, with his inward 
manner of speech and his bloodless quietude ; "I should not have 
had the presumption to propose myself as a model, for your imita- 
tion or any man's. Let me but leave a good name to my three 
daughters, and that is enough for me ; I am not a self-seeker. 
But, since you mention me so pointedly, I will acknowledge that 
I should like to impart to you a little of my — come, sir, you are 
disposed to call it insensibility, and I am sure I have no objection 
— say insensibility — a little of my insensibility." 

"Mr. Vholes," explains the client, somewhat abashed, "I had 
no intention to accuse you of insensibility." 

"I think you had, sir, without knowing it," returns the equable 
Vholes. " Very naturally. It is my duty to attend to your inter- 
ests with a cool head, and I can quite understand that to your 
excited feelings I may appear, at such times as the present, insen- 
sible. My daughters may know me better ; my aged father may 
know me better. But they have known me much longer than you 
have, and the confiding eye of affection is not the distrustful eye 
of business. Not that I complain, sir, of the eye of business being 
distrastful ; quite the contrary. In attending to your interests, I 
wish to have all possible checks upon me ; it is right that I should 
have them ; I court inquiry. But your interests demand that I 
should be cool and methodical, Mr. Carstone ; and I cannot be 
otherwise — no, sir, not even to please you." 

Mr. Vholes, after glancing at the official cat who is patiently 
watching a mouse's hole, fixes his charmed gaze again on his young 
client, and proceeds in his buttoned-up half-audible voice, as if 
there were an unclean spirit in him that will neither come out nor 
speak out : 

" What are you to do, sir, you inquire, during the vacation. I 

should hope you gentlemen of the army may find many means of 

amusing yourselves, if you give your minds to it. If you had 

n asked me what / was to do, during the vacation, I could have 

I answered you more readily. I am to attend to your interests. I 

am to be found here, day by day, attending to your interests. 

f That is my duty, Mr. C ; and term time or vacation makes no 

,< difference to me. If you wish to consult me as to your interests, 

you will find me here at all times alike. Other professional men 

go out of town. I don't. Not that I blame them for going ; I 

merely say, I don't go. This desk is your rock, sir ! " 



512 BLEAK HOUSE. 

Mr. Vholes gives it a rap, and it sounds as hollow as a coffin. 
Not to Richard, though. There is encouragement in the sound to 
him. Perhaps Mr. Vholes knows there is. 

" I am perfectly aware, Mr. Vholes," says Richard, more famil- 
iarly and good-humouredly, ".that you are the most reliable fellow 
in the world ; and that to have to do with you, is to have to do 
with a man of business who is not to be hoodwinked. But put 
yourself in my case, dragging on this dislocated life, sinkmg deeper 
and deeper into difficulty every day, continually hoping and con- 
tinually disappointed, conscious of change upon change for the 
worse in myself, and of no change for the better in anything else ; 
and you will find it a dark -looking case sometimes, as I do." 

"You know," says Mr. Vholes, "that I never give hopes, sir. 
I told you from the fii'st, Mr. C, that I never give hopes. Par- 
ticularly in a case like this, where the greater part of the costs 
comes out of the estate, I should not be considerate of my good 
name, if I gave hopes. It might seem as if costs were my object. 
Still, when you say there is no change for the better, I must, as a 
bare matter of fact, deny that." 

" Aye 1 " returns Richard, brightening. " But how do you make , 

it out?" 

" Mr. Carstone, you are represented by " \ 

" You said just now — a rock." 

"Yes, sir," says Mr. Vholes, gently shaking his head and rap- j 
ping the hollow desk, with a sound as if ashes were falling on j 
ashes, and dust on dust, "a rock. That's something. You are* 
separately represented, and no longer hidden and lost m the interests j 
of others. That's something. The suit does not sleep ; we wake 
it up, we air it, we walk it about. That's something. It's not all 
Jarndyce, in fact as well as in name. That's something. Nobody 
has it all his own way now, sir. And that's something, surely. 

Richard, his face flushing suddenly, strikes the desk with hisj 

clenched hand. t ^ i. i. ^ ' 

" Mr. Vholes ! If any man had told me, when I first went to 
John Jarndyce's house, that he was anything but the disinterested 
friend he seemed — that he was what he has gradually turned out 
to be — I could have found no words strong enough to repel the 
slander ; I could not have defended him too ardently. So httle 
did I know of the world ! Whereas, now, I do declare to you that 
he becomes to me the embodiment of the suit; that, in place of its 
being an abstraction, it is John Jarndyce ; that the more I suffer, 
the more indignant I am with him ; that every new delay, and 
every new disappointment, is only a new injury from John Jarn- 
dyce's hand." 




2l 



514 BLEAK HOUSE. 

"No, no," says Vholes. "Don't say so. We ought to have 
patience, all of us. Besides, I never disparage, sir. I never dis- 
parage." 

"Mr. Vholes," returns the angry client. "You know as well 
as I, that he would have strangled the suit if he could." 

"He was not active in it," Mr. Vholes admits, with an appear- 
ance of reluctance. " He certainly was not active in it. But 
however, but however, he might have had amiable intentions. 
Who can read the heart, Mr. C ! " 

" You can," returns Eichard. 

"I, Mr. 0?" 

" Well enough to know what his intentions were. Are, or are 
not, our interests conflicting 1 Tell — me — that ! " says Richard, 
accompanying his three last words with three raps on his rock of 
trust. 

" Mr. 0," returns Vholes, immovable in attitude and never wink- 
ing his hungry eyes, "I should be wanting in my duty as your 
professional adviser, I should be departing from my fidelity to 
your interests, if I represented those interests as identical with the 
interests of Mr. Jarndyce. They are no such thing, sir. I never 
impute motives ; I both have, and am, a father, and I never impute 
motives. But I must not shrink from a professional duty, even if 
it sows dissension in families. I understand you to be now con- 
sulting me professionally, as to your interests 1 You are so ? I 
reply then, they are not identical with those of Mr. Jarndyce." 

" Of course they are not ! " cries Richard. " You found that 
out, long ago." 

"Mr. C," returns Vholes, "I wish to say no more of any third 
party than is necessary. I wish to leave my good name unsullied, 
together with any little property of which I may become possessed 
through industry and perseverance, to my daughters Emma, Jane, ' 
and Caroline. I also desire to live in amity with my professional 
brethren. When Mr. Skimpole did me the honour, sir — I will • 
not say the very high honour, for I never stoop to flattery — of 
bringing us together in this room, I mentioned to you that I could , 
offer no opinion or advice as to your interests, while those interests 
were entrusted to another member of the profession. And I spoke 
in such terms as I was bound to speak, of Keuge and Carboy's; 
ofiice, which stands high. You, sir, thought fit to withdraw your 
interests from that keeping nevertheless, and to off'er them to me. 
You brought them with clean hands, sir, and I accepted them with 
clean hands. Those interests are now paramount in this office. 
My digestive functions, as you may have heard me mention, are 
not in a good state, and rest might improve them ; but I shall not 



BLEAK HOUSE. 515 

rest, sir, while I am your representative. Whenever you want 
me, you will find me here. Summon me anywhere, and I will 
come. During the long vacation, sir, I shall devote my leisure to 
studying your interests more and more closely, and to making 
arrangements for moving heaven and earth (including, of course, 
the Chancellor) after Michaelmas Term ; and when I ultimately 
congratulate you, sir," says Mr. Vholes, with the severity of a 
determined man, "when I ultimately congratulate you, sir, with 
all my heart, on your accession to fortune — which, but that I 
never give hopes, I might say something further about — you will 
owe me nothing, beyond whatever little balance may be then out- 
standing of the costs as between solicitor and client, not included 
in the taxed costs allowed out of the estate. I pretend to no claim 
upon you, Mr. C, but for the zealous and active discharge — not 
the languid and routine discharge, sir : that much credit I stipu- 
late for — of my professional duty. My duty prosperously ended, 
all between us is ended." 

Vholes finally adds, by way of rider to this declaration of his 
principles, that as Mr. Carstone is about to rejoin his regiment, 
perhaps Mr. C will favour him with an order on his agent for 
twenty pounds on account. 

" For there have been many little consultations and attendances 
of late, sir," observes Vholes, turning over the leaves of his Diary, 
" and these things mount up, and I don't profess to be a man of 
capital. When we first entered on our present relations, I stated 
to you openly — it is a principle of mine that there never can be 
too much openness between solicitor and client — that I was not 
a man of capital ; and that if capital was your object, you had 
better leave your papers in Kenge's office. No, Mr. C, you will 
find none of the advantages, or disadvantages, of capital here, sir. 
This," Vholes gives the desk one hollow blow again, "is your rock ; 
it pretends to be nothing more." 

The client, with his dejection insensibly relieved, and his vague 

I hopes rekindled, takes pen and ink and writes the draft : not with- 
out perplexed consideration and calculation of the date it may bear, 

i implying scant effects in the agent's hands. All the while, Vholes, 
buttoned up in body and mind, looks at him attentively. All the 

\ while, Vholes's official cat watches the mouse's hole. 

Lastly, the client, shaking hands, beseeches Mr. Vholes, for 

I Heaven's sake and Earth's sake, to do his utmost, to " pull him 
through " the Court of Chancery. Mr. Vholes, who never gives 
hopes, lays his palm upon the client's shoulder, and answers with a 
smile, " Always here, sir. Personally, or by letter, you will always 
find me here, sir, with my shoulder to the wheel." Thus they 



516 BLEAK HOUSE. 

part ; and Vholes, left alone, employs himself in carrjdng sundry 
little matters out of his Diary into his draft bill-book, for the ulti- 
mate behoof of his three daughters. So might an industrious fox, 
or bear, make up his account of chickens or stray travellers Mdth 
an eye to his cubs ; not to disparage by that word the three raw- 
visaged, lank, and buttoned-up maidens, who dwell with the parent 
Vholes in an earthy cottage situated in a damp garden at Ken- 
nington. 

Kichard, emerging from the heavy shade of Symond's Inn into 
the sunshine of Chancery Lane — for there happens to be sunshine 
there to-day — walks thoughtfully on, and turns into Lincoln's Inn, 
and passes under the shadow of the Lincoln's Inn trees. On many 
such loungers have the speckled shadows of those trees often fallen ; 
on the like bent head, the bitten nail, the lowering eye, the linger- 
ing step, the purposeless and dreamy air, the good consuming and 
consumed, the life turned sour. This lounger is not shabby yet, 
but that may come. Chancery, which knows no wisdom but in 
Precedent, is very rich in such Precedents ; and why should one be 
different from ten thousand ? 

Yet the time is so short since his depreciation began, that as he 
saunters away, reluctant to leave the spot for some long months 
together, though he hates it, Richard himself may feel his own 
case as if it were a startling one. While his heart is heavy with 
corroding care, suspense, distrust, and doubt, it may have room 
for some sorrowful wonder when he recalls how different his first 
visit there, how different he, how different all the colours of his 
mind. But injustice breeds injustice ; the fighting with shadows 
and being defeated by them, necessitates the setting up of sub- 
stances to combat ; from the impalpable suit which no man alive 
can understand, the time for that being long gone by, it has become 
a gloomy relief to turn to the palpable figure of the friend who 
would have saved him from this ruin, and made him. his enemy. 
Richard has told Vholes the truth. Is he in a hardened or a 
softened mood, he still lays his injuries equally at that door ; he 
was thwarted, in that quarter, of a set purpose, and that purpose 
could only originate in the one subject that is resolving his exist- 
ence into itself; besides, it is a justification to him in his own 
eyes to have an embodied antagonist and oppressor. 

Is Richard a monster in all this, — or would Chancery be found 
rich in such Precedents too, if they could be got for citation from 
the Recording Angel ? 

Two pairs of eyes not unused to such people look after him, as, 
biting his nails and brooding, he crosses the square, and is swal- 
lowed up by the shadow of the southern gateway. Mr. Guppy 



BLEAK HOUSE. 517 

and Mr. Weevle are the possessors of those eyes, and they have 
been leaning in conversation against the low stone parapet under 
the trees. He passed close by them, seeing nothing but the 
ground. 

"William," says Mr. Weevle, adjusting his whiskers ; "there's 
combustion going on there ! It's not a case of Spontaneous, but 
it's smouldering combustion it is." 

" Ah ! " says Mr. Guppy, " he wouldn't keep out of Jarndyce, 
and I suppose he's over head and ears in debt. I never knew 
much of him. He was as high as the Monument when he was on 
trial at our place. A good riddance to me, whether as clerk or 
client ! Well, Tony, that as I was mentioning is what they're 
up to." 

Mr. Guppy, refolding his arms, resettles himself against the 
parapet, as resuming a conversation of interest. 

"They are still up to it, sir," says Mr. Guppy, "still taking 
stock, still examining pajDers, still going over the heaps and heaps 
of rubbish. At this rate they'll be at it these seven years." 

"And Small is helping?" 

" Small left us at a week's notice. Told Kenge, his grand- 
father's business was too much for the old gentleman, and he could 
better himself by undertaking it. There had been a coolness 
between myself and Small on account of his being so close. But 
he said you and I began it ; and as he had me there — for we 
did — I put our acquaintance on the old footing. That's how I 
come to know what they're up to." 

" You haven't looked in at all ? " 

" Tony," says Mr. Guppy, a little disconcerted, "to be unre- 
served with you, I don't greatly relish the house, except in your 
company, and therefore I have not ; and therefore I proposed this 
little appointment for our fetching away your things. There goes 
the hour by the clock ! Tony ; " Mr. Guppy becomes mysteri- 
ously and tenderly eloquent ; "it is necessary that I should 
impress upon your mind once more, that circumstances over which 
I have no control, have made a melancholy alteration in my most 
cherished plans, and in that unrequited image which I formerly 
mentioned to you as a friend. That image is shattered, and that 
idol is laid low. My only wish now, in connection with the 
objects which I had an idea of carrying out in the court, with 
your aid as a friend, is to let 'em alone and bury 'em in oblivion. 
Do you think it possible, do you think it at all likely (I piit it to 
you, Tony, as a friend), from your knowledge of that capricious 
and deep old character who fell a prey to the — Spontaneous 
element ; do you, Tony, think it at all likely that, on second 



518 BLEAK HOUSE. 

thoughts, he put those letters away anywhere, after you saw him 
alive, and that they were not destroyed that night ? " 

Mr. Weevle reflects for some time. Shakes his head. Decidedly 
thinks not. 

" Tony," says Mr. Guppy, as they walk towards the court, 
" once again understand me, as a friend. Without entering into 
further explanations, I may repeat that the idol is down. I have 
no purpose to serve now, but burial in oblivion. To that I have 
pledged myself. I owe it to myself, and I owe it to the shattered 
image, as also to the circumstances over which I have no control. 
If you was to express to me by a gesture, by a wink, that you 
saw lying anywhere in your late lodgings, any papers that so much 
as looked like the papers in question, I would pitch them into the 
fire, sir, on my own responsibility." 

Mr. Weevle nods. Mr. Guppy, much elevated in his own 
opinion by having delivered these observations, with an air in part 
forensic and in part romantic — this gentleman having a passion 
for conducting anything in the form of an examination, or deliver- 
ing anything in tlae form of a summing up or a speech — accom- 
panies his friend with dignity to the court. 

Never, since it has been a court, has it had such a Fortunatus's 
purse of gossip as in the proceedings at the rag and bottle shop. 
Regularly, every morning at eight, is the elder Mr. Smallweed 
brought down to the corner and carried in, accompanied by Mrs. 
Smallweed, Judy, and Bart ; and regularly, all day, do they all 
remain there until nine at night, solaced by gipsy dinners, not 
abundant in quantity, from the cook's shop ; rummaging and 
searching, digging, delving, and diving among the treasures of the 
late lamented. What those treasures are, they keep so secret, that 
the court is maddened. In its delirium it imagines guineas pour- 
ing out of teapots, crown-pieces overflowing punch-bowls, old 
chairs and mattresses stuffed with Bank of England notes. It 
possesses itself of the sixpenny history (with highly-coloured fold- 
ing frontispiece) of Mr. Daniel Dancer and his sister, and also of 
Mr. Elwes, of Suff'olk, and transfers all the facts from those au- 
thentic narratives to Mr. Krook. Twice when the dustman is 
called in to carry off" a cartload of old paper, ashes, and broken 
bottles, the whole court assembles and pries into the baskets as 
they come forth. Many times the two gentlemen who write with 
the ravenous little pens on the tissue paper are seen prowling in 
the neighbourhood — shy of each other, their late partnership 
being dissolved. The Sol skilfully carries a vein of the prevailing 
interest through the Harmonic nights. Little Swills, in what are 
professionally known as " patter " allusions to the subject, is 



BLEAK HOUSE. 519 

received with loud applause ; and the same vocalist " gags " in the 
regular business like a man inspired. Even Miss M. Melvilleson, 
in the revived Caledonian melody of " We're a' nodding," points 
the sentiment that " the dogs love broo " (whatever the nature of 
that refreshment may be) with such archness, and such a turn of 
the head towards next door, that she is immediately understood 
to mean, Mr. Smallweed loves to find money, and is nightly 
honoured with a double encore. For all this, the court discovers 
nothing ; and, as Mrs. Piper and Mrs. Perkins now communicate 
to the late lodger whose appearance is the signal for a general 
rally, it is in one continual ferment to discover everything, and 
more. 

Mr. Weevle and Mr. Guppy, with every eye in the court's head 
upon them, knock at the closed door of the late lamented's house, 
in a high state of popularity. But, being contrary to the court's 
expectation admitted, they immediately become unpopular, and are 
considered to mean no good. 

The sliutters are more or less closed all over the house, and the 
ground-floor is sufficiently dark to require candles. Introduced into 
the back shop by Mr. Smallweed the younger, they, fresh from the 
sunlight, can at first see nothing save darkness and shadows ; but 
they gradually discern the elder Mr. Smallweed, seated in his chair 
upon the brink of a well or grave of waste paper ; the virtuous 
Judy groping therein, like a female sexton ; and Mrs. Smallweed 
on the level ground in the vicinity, snowed up in a heap of paper 
fragments, print and manuscript, which would appear to be the 
accumulated compliments that have been sent flying at her in the 
course of the day. The whole party. Small included, are blackened 
with dust and dirt, and present a fiendish appearance not relieved 
by the general aspect of the room. There is more litter and 
lumber in it than of old, and it is dirtier if possible ; likewise, it 
is ghostly with traces of its dead inhabitant, and even with his 
chalked writing on the wall. 

On the entrance of visitors, Mr. Smallweed and Judy simulta- 
neously fold their arms, and stop in their researches. 

" Aha ! " croaks the old gentleman. " How de do, gentlemen, 
how de do ! Come to fetch your property, Mr. Weevle ? That's 
well, that's well. ' Ha ! ha ! We should have been forced to sell 
you up, sir, to pay your warehouse room, if you had left it here 
much longer. You feel quite at home here, again, I dare say? 
Glad to see you, glad to see you ! " 

Mr. Weevle, thanking him, casts an eye about. Mr. Guppy's 
eye follows Mr. Weevle's eye. Mr. Weevle's eye comes back with- 
out any new intelligence in it. Mr. Guppy's eye comes back, and 



520 BLEAK HOUSE. 

meets Mr. Smallweed's eye. That engaging old gentleman is still 
murmuring, like some wound-up instrument running down, " How 

de do, sir — how de — how " And then having run down, 

he lapses into grinning silence, as Mr. Guppy starts at seeing Mr. 
Tulkinghorn standing in the darkness opposite, with his hands 
behind him. 

"Gentleman so kind as to act as my solicitor," says Grandfather 
Small weed. " I am not the sort of client for a gentleman of such 
note ; but he is so good ! " 

Mr. Guppy slightly nudging his friend to take another look, 
makes a shuffling bow to Mr. Tulkinghorn, who returns it with 
an easy nod. Mr. Tulkinghorn is looking on as if he had nothing 
else to do, and were rather amused by the novelty. 

"A good deal of property here, sir, I should say," Mr. Guppy 
observes to Mr. Smallweed. 

" Principally rags and rubbish, my dear friend ! rags and rubbish ! 
Me and Bart, and my granddaughter Judy, are endeavouring to 
make out an inventory of what's worth anything to sell. But we 
haven't come to much as yet, we — haven't — come — to — hah ! " 

Mr. Smallweed has run down again ; while Mr. Weevle's eye, 
attended by Mr. Guppy's eye, has again gone round the room and 
come back. 

" Well, sir," says Mr. Weevle. " We won't intrude any longer, 
if you'll allow us to go up-stairs." 

"Anywhere, my dear sir, anywhere! You're at home. Make 
yourself so, pray ! " 

As they go up-stairs, Mr. Guppy lifts his eyebrows inquiringly, 
and looks at Tony. Tony shakes his head. They find the old 
room very dull and dismal, with the ashes of the fire that was 
burning on that memorable night yet in the discoloured grate. 
They have a great disinclination to touch any object, and care- 
fully blow the dust from it first. Nor are they desirous to prolong 
their visit : packing the few movables with all possible speed, and 
never speaking above a whisper. 

" Look here," says Tony, recoiling. "Here's that horrible cat 
coming in ! " 

Mr. Guppy retreats behind a chair. " Small told me of her. 
She went leaping, and bounding and tearing about, that night, 
like a Dragon, and got out on the housetoji, and roamed about 
up there for a fortnight, then came tumbling down the chimney 
very thin. Did you ever see such a brute ? Looks as if she knew 
all about it, don't she? Almost looks as if she was Krook. 
Shoohoo ! Get out, you goblin ! " 

Lady Jane in the doorway, with her tiger-snarl from ear to ear, 



BLEAK HOUSE. 521 

and her club of a tail, shows no intention of obeying ; but Mr. 
Tulkinghorn stumbling over her, she spits at his rusty legs, and 
swearing wrathfully, takes her arched back up-stairs. Possibly to 
roam the housetops again, and return by the chimney. 

"Mr. Guppy," says Mr. Tulkinghorn, "could I have a word 
with you 1 " 

Mr. Guppy is engaged in collecting the Galaxy Gallery of Brit- 
ish Beauty from the wall, and depositing those works of art in their 
old ignoble bandbox. " Sir," he returns, reddening, " I wish to 
act with courtesy towards every member of the profession, and 
especially, I am sure, towards a member of it so well known as 
yourself — I will truly add, sir, so distinguished as yourself. Still, 
Mr. Tulkinghorn, sir, I must stipulate that if you have any word 
with me, that word is spoken in the presence of my friend." 

" Oh, indeed 1 " says Mr. Tulkinghorn. 

" Yes, sir. My reasons are not of a personal nature at all ; but 
they are amply sufficient for myself" 

"No doubt, no doubt." Mr. Tulkinghorn is as imperturbable 
as the hearthstone to which he has quietly walked. " The matter 
is not of that consequence that I need put you to the trouble of 
making any conditions, Mr. Guppy." He pauses here to smile, and 
his smile is as dull and rusty as his pantaloons. "You are to be 
congratulated, Mr. Guppy ; you are a fortunate young man, sir." 

"Pretty well so, Mr. Tulkinghorn; I don't complain." 

" Complain ? High friends, free admission to great houses, and 
access to elegant ladies ! Why, Mr. Guppy, there are people in 
London who would give their ears to be you." 

Mr. Guppy, looking as if he would give his own reddening and 
still reddening ears to be one of those people at present instead of 
himself, replies, " Sir, if I attend to my profession, and do what is 
right by Kenge and Carboy, my friends and acquaintances are of 
no consequence to them, nor to any member of the profession, not 
excepting Mr. Tulkinghorn of the Fields. I am not under any 
obligation to explain myself further ; and with all respect for you, 
sir, and without offence — I repeat, without offence " 

" Oh, certainly ! " 

" — I don't intend to do it." 

"Quite so," says Mr. Tulkinghorn, with a calm nod. "Very 
good : I see by these portraits that you take a strong interest in 
the fashionable great, sir 1 " 

He addresses this to the astounded Tony, who admits the soft 
impeachment. 

"A virtue in which few Englishmen are deficient," observes Mr. 
Tulkinghorn. He has been standing on the hearthstone, with his 



622 BLEAK HOUSE. 

back to the smoked chimney-piece, and now turns round, with his 
glasses to his eyes. " Who is this 1 ' Lady Dedlock.' Ha ! A 
very good hkeuess in its way, but it wants force of character. 
Good day to you, gentlemen ; good day ! " 

When he has walked out, Mr. Guppy, in a great perspiration, 
nerves himself to the hasty completion of the taking down of the 
Galaxy Gallery, concluding with Lady Dedlock. 

"Tony," he says hurriedly to his astonished companion, "let 
us be quick in putting the things together, and in getting out of 
this place. It were in vain longer to conceal from you, Tony, that 
between myself and one of the members of a swanlike aristocracy 
whom I now hold in my hand, there has been undivulged commu- 
nication and association. The time might have been, when I might 
have revealed it to you. It never will be more. It is due alike 
to the oath I have taken, alike to the shattered idol, and alike to 
circumstances over which I have no control, that the ole should be 
buried in oblivion. I charge you as a friend, by the interest you 
have ever testified in the fashionable intelligence, and by any little 
advances with which I may have been able to accommodate you, 
so to bury it without a word of inquiry ! " 

This charge Mr. Guppy delivers in a state little short of forensic 
lunacy, while his friend shows a dazed mind in his whole head of 
hair, and even in his cultivated whiskers. 



CHAPTER XL. 

NATIONAL AND DOMESTIC. 

England has been in a dreadful state for some weeks. Lord 
Coodle would go out, Sir Thomas Doodle wouldn't come in, and 
there being nobody in Great Britain (to speak of) except Coodle 
and Doodle, there has been no Government. It is a mercy that 
the hostile meeting between those two great men, which at one . 
time seemed inevitable, did not come off; because if both pistols, 
had taken effect, and Coodle and Doodle had killed each other, it 
is to be presumed that England must have waited to be governed 
until young Coodle and young Doodle, now in frocks and long 
stockings, were grown up. This stupendous national calamity, 
however, was averted by Lord Goodie's making the timely discov- 
ery, that if in the heat of debate he had said that he scorned and 
despised the whole ignoble career of Sir Thomas Doodle, he had 
merely meant to say that party differences should never induce him 
to withhold from it the tribute of his warmest admiration ; while 



BLEAK HOUSE. 523 

it as opportunely turned out, on the other hand, tlmt Sir Thomas 
Doodle had in his own bosom expressly booked Lord Coodle to go 
down to posterity as the mirror of virtue and honour. Still England 
has been some weeks in the dismal strait of having no pilot (as was 
well observed by Sir Leicester Dedlock) to weather the storm ; and 
the marvellous part of the matter is, that England has not appeared 
to care very much about it, but has gone on eating and drinking 
and marrying and giving in marriage, as the old world did in the 
days before the flood. But Coodle knew the danger, and Doodle 
knew the danger, and all their followers and hangers-on had the 
clearest possible perception of the danger. At last Sir Thomas 
Doodle has not only condescended to come in, but has done it 
handsomely, bringing in with him all his nephews, all his male 
cousins, and all his brothers-in-law. So there is hope for the old 
ship yet. 

Doodle has found that he must throw himself upon the coun- 
try — chiefly in the form of sovereigns and beer. In this meta- 
morphosed state he is available in a good many places simultane- 
ously, and can throw himself upon a considerable portion of the 
country at one time. Britannia being much occupied in pocketing 
Doodle in the form of sovereigns, and swallowing Doodle in the 
form of beer, and in swearing herself black in the face that she does 
neither — plainly to the advancement of her glory and morality — 
the London season comes to a sudden end, through all the Doodle- 
ites and Coodleites dispersing to assist Britannia in those religious 
exercises. 

Hence Mrs. Rouncewell, housekeeper at Chesney Wold, foresees, 
though no instructions have yet come down, that the family may 
shortly be expected, together with a pretty large accession of 
cousins and others who can in any way assist the great Constitu- 
tional work. And hence the stately old dame, taking Time by the 
forelock, leads him up and down the staircases, and along the gal- 
leries and passages and through the rooms, to witness before he 
grows any older that everything is ready ; that floors are rubbed 
bright, carpets spread, curtains shaken out,, beds puffed and patted, 
still-room and kitchen cleared for action, all things prepared as 
beseems the Dedlock dignity. 

This present summer evening, as the sim goes down, the prepa- 
rations are complete. Dreaiy and solemn the old house looks, with 
so many appliances of habitation, and with no inhabitants except 
the pictured forms upon the walls. So did these come and go, a 
Dedlock in possession might have nmiinated passing along ; so did 
they see this gallery huslied and quiet, as I see it now ; so think, 
as I think, of the gap that they would make in this domain when 



BLEAK HOUSE. 525 

they were gone ; so find it, as I find it, difficult to believe that it 
could be, without them ; so pass from my world, as I pass from 
theirs, now closing the reverberating door; so leave no blank to 
miss them, and so die. 

Through some of the fiery windows, beautiful from without, and 
set, at this sunset hour, not in dull grey stone but in a glorious 
house of gold, the light excluded at other windows pours in, rich, 
lavish, overflowing like the summer plenty in the land. Then do 
the frozen Dedlocks thaw. Strange movements come upon their 
features, as the shadows of leaves play there. A dense Justice in 
a corner is beguiled into a wink. A staring Baronet, with a 
truncheon, gets a dimple in his chin. Down into the bosom of a 
stony shepherdess there steals a fleck of light and warmth, that 
would have done it good, a hundred years ago. One ancestress of 
Volumnia, in high-heeled shoes, very like her — casting the shadow 
of that virgin event before her full two centuries — shoots out into 
a halo and becomes a saint. A maid of honour of the court of 
Charles the Second, with large round eyes (and other charms to 
correspond), seems to bathe in glowing water, and it ripples as it 
glows. 

But the fire of the sun is dying. Even now the floor is dusky, 
and shadow slowly mounts the walls, bringing the Dedlocks down 
like age and death. And now, upon my lady's picture over the 
great chimney-piece, a weird shade falls from some old tree, that 
turns it pale, and flutters it, and looks as if a great arm held a veil 
or hood, watching an opportunity to draw it over her. Higher 
and darker rises shadow on the wall — now a red gloom on the 
ceiling — now the fire is out. 

All that prospect, which from the terrace looked so near, has 
moved solemnly away, and changed — not the first nor the last of 
beautiful things that look so near and will so change — into a dis- 
tant phantom. Light mists arise, and the dew falls, and all the 
sweet scents in the garden are heavy in the air. Now, the woods 
settle into great masses as if they were each one profound tree. 
And now the moon rises, to separate them, and to glimmer here 
and there in horizontal lines behind their stems, and to make the 
avenue a pavement of light among high cathedral arches fantas- 
tically broken. 

Now, the moon is high ; and the great house, needing habitation 
more than ever, is like a body without life. Now, it is even awful, 
stealing through it, to think of the live people who have slept in 
the solitary bedrooms : to say nothing of the dead. Now is the 
time for shadow, when every corner is a cavern, and every down- 
ward step a pit, when the stained glass is reflected in pale and 



526 BLEAK HOUSE. 

faded hues upon the floors, when anything and everything can be 
made of the heavy staircase beams excepting their own proper 
shapes, when the armour has dull lights upon it not easily to be 
distinguished from stealthy movement, and when barred helmets 
are frightfully suggestive of heads inside. But, of all the shadows 
in Chesney Wold, the shadow in the long drawing-room upon my 
Lady's picture is the first to come, the last to be disturbed. At 
this hour and by this light it changes into threatening hands raised 
up, and menacing the handsome face with every breath that stirs. 

" She is not well, ma'am," says a groom in Mrs. Rouncewell's 
audience-cham ber . 

" My Lady not well 1 What's the matter ? " 

" Why, my Lady has been but poorly, ma'am, since she was last 
here — - 1 don't mean with the family, ma'am, but when she was 
here as a bird of passage-like. My Lady has not been out much, 
for her, and has kept her room a good deal." 

"Chesney Wold, Thomas," rejoins the housekeeper, with proud 
complacency, "will set my Lady up ! Tliere is no finer air, and 
no healthier soil, in the world ! " 

Thomas may have his own personal opinions on this subject ; 
probably hints them, in his manner of smoothing his sleek head 
from the nape of his neck to his temples ; but he forbears to 
express them further, and retires to the servants' hall to regale on 
cold meat-pie and ale. 

This groom is the pilot-fish before the nobler shark. Next 
evening, down come Sir Leicester and my Lady with their largest 
retinue, and down come the cousins and others from all the points 
in the compass. Thenceforth for some weeks, backward and for- 
ward rush mysterious men with no names, who fly about all those 
particular parts of the country on which Doodle is at present 
throwing himself in an auriferous and malty shower, but who are 
merely persons of a restless disposition and never do anything any- 
where. 

On these national occasions, Sir Leicester finds the cousins use- 
ful. A better man than the Honorable Bob Stables to meet the 
Hunt at dinner, there could not possibly be. Better got up gen- 
tlemen than the other cousins, to ride over to polling-booths and 
hustings here and there, and .show themselves on the side of Eng- 
land, it would be hard to find. Volumnia is a little dim, but she 
is of the true descent ; and there are many who appreciate her 
sprightly conversation, her French conundrums so old as to have 
become in the cycles of time almost new again, the honour of taking 
the fair Dedlock in to dinner, or even the privilege of her hand in 
the dance. On these national occasions, dancing may be a patriotic 



BLEAK HOUSE. 527 

service ; and Volumnia is constantly seen hopping about, for the 
good of an ungrateful and unpensioning country. 

My Lady takes no great pains to entertain the numerous guests, 
and, being still unwell, rarely appears until late in the day. But, 
at all the dismal dinners, leaden lunches, basilisk balls, and other 
melancholy pageants, her mere appearance is a relief. As to Sir 
Leicester, he conceives it utterly impossible that anything can be 
wanting, in any direction, by any one who has the good fortune 
to be received under that roof; and in a state of sublime satisfac- 
tion, he moves among the company, a magnificent refrigerator. 

Daily the cousins trot through dust, and canter over roadside 
turf, away to hustings and polling-booths (with leather gloves and 
hunting-whips for the counties, and kid gloves and riding-canes 
for the boroughs), and daily bring back reports on which Sir 
Leicester holds forth after dinner. Daily the restless men who 
have no occupation in life, present the appearance of being rather 
busy. Daily, Volumnia has a little cousinly talk with Sir Leicester 
on the state of the nation, from which Sir Leicester is disposed 
to conclude tliat Volumnia is a more reflecting woman than he 
had thought her. 

" How are we getting on ? " says Miss Volumnia, clasping her 
hands. " Are we safe ? " 

The mighty business is nearly over by this time, and Doodle will 
throw himself off" the country in a few days more. Sir Leicester 
has just appeared in the long drawing-room after dinner ; a bright 
particular star, surrounded by clouds of cousins. 

"Volumnia," replies Sir Leicester, who has a list in his hands 
"we are doing tolerably." 

" Only tolerably ! " 

Although it is summer weather, Sir Leicester always has his 
own particular fire in the evening. He takes his usual screened 
seat near it, and repeats, with much firmness and a little displeas- 
ure, as who should say, I am not a common man, and when I say 
tolerably, it must not be understood as a common expression ; 
" Volumnia, we are doing tolerably." 

"At least there is no opposition to you" Volumnia asserts with 
confidence. 

" No, Volumnia. This distracted country has lost its senses in 
many respects, I grieve to say, but " 

" It is not so mad as that. I am glad to hear it ! " 

Volumnia's finishing the sentence restores her to favour. Sir 
j Leicester, with a gracious inclination of his head, seems to say to 
', himself, "A sensible woman this, on the whole, though occasion- 
I ally precipitate." 



628 BLEAK HOUSE. 

In fact, as to this question of opposition, the fair Dedlock's 
observation was superfluous : Sir Leicester, on these occasions, 
always delivering in his own candidateship, as a kind of handsome 
wholesale order to be promptly executed. Two other little seats 
that belong to him, he treats as retail orders of less importance ; 
merely sending down the men, and signifying to the tradespeople, 
" You will have the goodness to make these materials into two 
members of parliament, and to send them home when done." 

" I regret to say, Volumnia, that in many places the people have 
shown a bad spirit, and that this opposition to the Government 
has been of a most determined and most implacable description." 

" W-r-retches ! " says Volumnia. 

"Even," proceeds Sir Leicester, glancing at the circumjacent 
cousins on sofas and ottomans, " even in many — in fact, in most 
— of those places in which the Government has carried it against 
a faction " 

(Note, by the way, that the Coodleites are always a faction with 
the Doodleites, and that the Doodleites occupy exactly the same 
position towards the Coodleites.) 

" — Even in them I am shocked, for the credit of Englishmen, 
to be constrained to inform you that the Party has not triumphed 
without being put to an enormous expense. Hundreds," says Sir 
Leicester, eyeing the cousins with increasing dignity and swelling 
indignation, " hundreds of thousands of pounds ! " 

If Volumnia have a fault, it is the fault of being a trifle too 
innocent ; seeing that the innocence which would go extremely 
well with a sash and tucker, is a little out of keeping with the 
rouge and pearl necklace. Howbeit, impelled by innocence, she 
asks, 

"What for?" 

" Volumnia," remonstrates Sir Leicester, with his utmost severity. 
" Volumnia ! " 

" No, no, I don't mean what for," cries Volumnia, with her 
favourite little scream. " How stupid I am ! I mean what a 
pity ! " 

"I am glad," returns Sir Leicester, "that you do mean what a 
pity." 

Volumnia hastens to express her opinion that the shocking 
people ought to be tried as traitors, and made to support the 
Party. 

"I am glad, Volumnia," repeats Sir Leicester, unmindful of 
these mollifying sentiments, "that you do mean what a pity. It 
is disgraceful to the electors. But as you, though inadvertently, 
and without intending so unreasonable a question, asked me ' what 



BLEAK HOUSE. 629 

for 1 ' let me reply to you. For necessary expenses. And I trust 
to your good sense, Volumnia, not to pursue the subject, here or 
elsewhere." 

Sir Leicester feels it incumbent on him to observe a crushing 
aspect towards Volumnia, because it is whispered abroad that 
these necessary expenses will, in some two hundred election peti- 
tions, be unpleasantly connected witii the word bribery ; and 
because some graceless jokers have consequently suggested the 
omission from the Church service* of tlie ordinary supplication in 
behalf of the Higli Court of Parliament, and have recommended 
instead that the prayers of the congregation be requested for six 
hundred and fifty-eight gentlemen in a very unhealthy state. 

"I suppose," observes Volumnia, having taken a little time to 
recover her spirits after her late castigation, " I suppose Mr. Tulk- 
inghorn has been worked to death." 

" I don't know," says Sir Leicester, opening his eyes, " why Mr. 
Tulkinghorn should be worked to death. I don't know what Mr. 
Tulkinghorn's engagements may be. He is not a candidate." 

Volumnia had thouglit he might have been employed. Sir 
Leicester could desire to know by whom, and what for 1 Volum- 
nia, abashed again, suggests, by Somebody — to advise and make 
arrangements. Sir Leicester is not aware that any client of Mr. 
Tulkinghorn has been in need of his assistance. 

Lady Dedlock, seated at an open window, with her arm upon its 
cushioned ledge and looking out at the evening shadows falling on 
the park, has seemed to attend since the lawyer's name was men- 
tioned. 

A languid cousin with a moustache, in a state of extreme debil- 
ity, now observes from his couch, that — man told him ya'as'dy 
that Tulkinghorn had gone down to t'that iron place t'give legal 
'pinion 'bout something ; and that, contest being over t'day, 'twould 
be highly jawlly thing if Tulkinghorn should pear with news that 
Coodle man was floored. 

Mercury in attendance with coffee informs Sir Leicester, here- 
upon, that Mr. Tulkinghorn has arrived, and is taking dinner. 
My Lady turns her head inward for the moment, then looks out 
again as before. 

Volumnia is charmed to hear that her Delight is come. He is 
so original, such a stolid creature, such an immense being for know- 
ing all sorts of things and never telling them ! Volumnia is per- 
suaded that he must be a Freemason. Is sure he is at the head 
of a lodge, and wears short aprons, and is made a perfect Idol of, 
with candlesticks and trowels. These lively remarks the fair Ded- 
lock delivers in her youthful manner, while making a purse. 

2 m 



530 BLEAK HOUSE. 

"He has not been here once," she adds, "since I came. I 
really had some tlioughts of breaking my heart for the inconstant 
creature. I had almost made up my mind that he was dead." 

It may be the gathering gloom of evening, or it may be the 
darker gloom within herself, but a shade is on my Lady's face, as 
if she thought " I would he were ! " 

"Mr. Tulkinghorn," says Sir Leicester, "is always welcome 
here, and always discreet wheresoever he is. A very valuable per- 
son, and deservedly respected." - 

The debilitated cousin supposes he is " 'normously rich fler." 

"He has a stake in the country," says Sir Leicester, "I have 
no doubt. He is, of course, handsomely paid, and he associates 
almost on a footing of equality with the highest society." 

Everybody starts. For a gun is fired close by. 

" Good gracious, what's that ! " cries Volumnia with her little 
withered scream. 

" A rat," says my Lady. " And they have shot him." 

Enter Mr. Tulkinghorn, followed by Mercuries with lamps and 
candles. 

"No, no," says Sir Leicester, "I think not. My Lady, do you 
object to the twilight ? " 

On the contrary, my Lady prefers it. 

" Volumnia ? " ' 

! nothing is so delicious to Volumnia as to sit and talk in the 
dark ! 

"Then take them away," says Sir Leicester. "Tulkinghorn, I 
beg your pardon. How do you do ? " 

Mr. Tulkinghorn with his usual leisurely ease advances, renders 
his passing homage to my Lady, shakes Sir Leicester's hand, and 
subsides into the chair proper to him when he has anything to 
communicate, on the opposite side of the Baronet's little newspaper- 
table. Sir Leicester is apprehensive that my Lady, not being very 
well, will take cold at that open window. My Lady is obliged to 
him, but would rather sit there, for the air. Sir Leicester rises, 
adjusts her scarf about her, and returns to his seat. Mr. Tulking- 
horn in the meanwhile takes a pinch of snuff. 

" Now," says Sir Leicester. " How has that contest gone ?" 

" Oh, hollow from the beginning. Not a chance. They have 
brought in both their people. You are beaten out of all reason. 
Three to one." 

It is a part of Mr. Tulkinghorn's policy and mastery to have no 
political opinions ; indeed, no opinions. Therefore he says " you " 
are beaten, and not " we." 

Sir Leicester is majestically wroth. Volumnia never heard of 



BLEAK HOUSE. 531 

such a thing. The debilitated cousin holds that it's — sort of 
thing that's sure tapn slongs votes — giv'n — Mob. 

"It's the place, you know," Mr. Tulkinghorn goes on to say in 
the fast increasing darkness, when there is silence again, " where 
they wanted to put up Mrs. Rouncewell's son." 

" A proposal which, as you correctly informed me at the time, 
he had the becoming taste and perception," observes Sir Leicester, 
" to decline. I cannot say that I by any means approve of the 
sentiments expressed by Mr. Rouncewell, when he was here for 
some half-hour, in this room ; but there was a sense of propriety 
in his decision which I am glad to acknowledge." 

" Ha ! " says Mr. Tulkinghorn. " It did not prevent him from 
being very active in this election, though." 

Sir Leicester is distinctly heard to gasp before speaking. " Did 
I understand you ? Did you say that Mr. Rouncewell had been 
very active in this election ? " 

" Uncommonly active." 

" Against — " 

" dear yes, against you. He is a very good speaker. Plain and 
emphatic. He made a damaging effect, and has great influence. 
In the business-part of the proceedings he carried all before him." 

It is evident to the whole company, though nobody can see him, 
that Sir Leicester is staring ^majestically. 

"And he was much assisted," says Mr. Tulkinghorn, as a wind- 
up, "by his son." 

" By his son, sir 1 " repeats Sir Leicester, with awful politeness. 

"By his son." 

" The son who wished to marry the young woman in my Lady's 
service 1 " 

" That son. He has but one." 

" Then upon my honour," says Sir Leicester, after a terrific pause, 
during which he has been heard to snort and felt to stare ; " then 
upon my honour, upon my life, upon my reputation and principles, 
the floodgates of society are burst open, and the waters have — a — 
obliterated the landmarks of the framework of the cohesion by 
which things are held together ! " 

General burst of cousinly indignation. Volumnia thinks it is 
really high time, you know, for somebody in power to step in and 
do something strong. Debilitated cousin thinks — Country's going 
— DAYVLE — steeple- chase pace. 

"I beg," says Sir Leicester, in a breathless condition, "that 
we may not comment further on this circumstance. Comment is 
superfluous. My Lady, let me suggest in reference to tliat young 
woman " 



532 BLEAK HOUSE. 

" I have no intention," observes my Lady from her window, in 
a low but decided tone, " of parting with her." 

"That was not my meaning," returns Sir Leicester. "I am 
glad to hear you say so. I would suggest that as you think her 
worthy of your patronage, you should exert your influence to keep 
her from these dangerous hands. You might show her what vio- 
lence would be done, in such association, to her duties and prin- 
ciples ; and you might preserve her for a better fate. You might 
point out to her that she probably would, in good time, find a 
husband at Chesney Wold by whom she would not be — " Sir 
Leicester adds, after a moment's consideration, " dragged from the 
altars of her forefathers." 

These remarks he offers with his unvarying politeness and defer- 
ence when he addresses himself to his wife. She merely moves 
her head in rejjly. The moon is rising ; and where she sits there 
is a little stream of cold pale light, in which her head is seen. 

"It is worthy of remark," says Mr. Tulkinghorn, "however, 
that these people are, in their way, very proud." 

" Proud? " Sir Leicester doubts his hearing. 

" I should not be surprised, if they all voluntarily abandoned the 
girl — yes, lover and all — instead of her abandoning them, suppos- 
ing she remained at Chesney Wold under such circumstances." 

" Well ! " says Sir Leicester, tremulously, " Well ! You should 
know, Mr. Tulkinghorn. You have been among them." 

"Really, Sir Leicester," returns the lawyer, "I state the fact. 
Why, I could tell you a stoiy — with Lady Dedlock's permission." 

Her head concedes it, and Volumnia is enchanted. A story ! 

he is going to tell something at last ! A ghost in it, Volumnia 
hopes 1 

" No. Real flesh "and blood." Mr. Tulkinghorn stops for an 
instant, and re2)eats, with some little emphasis grafted upon his 
usual monotony, " Real flesh and blood, Miss Dedlock. Sir Leices- 
ter, these particulars have only lately become known to me. They 
are very brief They exemplify what I have said. I suppress 
names for the present. Lady Dedlock will not think me ill-bred, 

1 hope 1 " 

By the light of the fire, which is low, he can be seen looking 
towards the moonlight. By the light of the moon Lady Dedlock 
can be seen, perfectly still. 

"A townsman of this Mr. Rouncewell, a man in exactly parallel 
circumstances as I am told, had the good fortune to have a 
daughter who attracted the notice of a great lady. I speak of 
really a great lady ; not merely great to him, but married to a 
gentlemen of your condition. Sir Leicester." 



BLEAK HOUSE. 533 

Sir Leicester condescendingly says, " Yes, Mr. Tulkinghorn ; " 
implying that then she must have appeared of very considerable 
moral dimensions indeed, in the eyes of an ironmaster. 

"The lady was wealthy and beautiful, and had a liking for the 
girl, and treated her with great kindness, and kept her always 
near her. Now this lady preserved a secret under all her great- 
ness, which she had preserved for many years. In fact, she had 
in early life been engaged to marry a young rake — he was a 
captain in the army — nothing connected with whom came to any 
good. She never did marry him, but she gave birth to a child 
of which he was the father." 

By the light of the fire he can be seen looking towards the 
moonlight. By the moonlight, Lady Dedlock can be seen in 
profile, perfectly still. 

" The captain in the army being dead, she believed herself safe ; 
but a train of circumstances with which I need not trouble you, 
led to discoveiy. As I received the stoiy, they began in an impru- 
dence on her own part one day, when she was taken by surprise ; 
which shows how difiicult it is for the firmest of us (she was very 
firm) to be always guarded. There was great domestic trouble 
and amazement, you may suppose ; I leave you to imagine, Sir 
Leicester, the husband's grief But that is not the present point. 
When Mr. Rouncewell's townsman heard of the disclosure, he no 
more allowed the girl to be patronised and honoured, than he would 
have suft'ered her to be trodden underfoot before his eyes. Such 
was his pride, that he indignantly took her away, as if from re- 
proach and disgrace. He had no sense of the honour done him 
and his daughter by the lady's condescension ; not the least. He 
resented the girl's position, as if the lady had been the commonest 
of commoners. That is the story. I hope Lady Dedlock will 
excuse its painful nature." 

There are various opinions on the merits, more or less conflicting 
with Volumnia's. That fair young creature cannot believe there 
ever was any such lady, and rejects the whole history on the thresh- 
old. The majority incline to the debilitated cousin's sentiment, 
which is in few words — "no business — Rouncewell's fernal towns- 
man." Sir Leicester generally refers back in his mind to Wat 
Tyler, and arranges a sequence of events on a plan of his own. 

There is not much conversation in all, for late hours have been 
kept at Chesney Wold since the necessary expenses elsewhere 
began, and this is the first night in many on which the family 
have been alone. It is past ten, when Sir Leicester begs Mr. 
Tulkinghorn to ring for candles. Then the stream of moonlight 
has swelled into a lake, and then Lady Dedlock for the first time 



534 BLEAK HOUSE. 

moves, and rises, and comes forward to a table for a glass of water. 
Winking cousins, bat-like in the candle glare, crowd round to give 
it ; Volumnia (always ready for something better if procurable) 
takes another, a very mild sip of which contents her ; Lady Ded- 
lock, graceful, self-possessed, looked after by admiring eyes, passes 
away slowly down the long perspective by the side of that Nymph, 
not at all improving her as a question of contrast. 



CHAPTER XLI. 

IN MR. TULKINGHOEN's ROOM. 

Mk. Tulkinghoen arrives in his turret-room, a little breathed 
by the journey up, though leisurely performed. There is an ex- 
pression on his face as if he had discharged his mind of some grave [ 
matter, and were, in his close way, satisfied. To say of a man so 
severely and strictly self-repressed that he is triumphant, would be > 
to do him as great an injustice as to suppose him troubled with 
love or sentiment, or any romantic weakness. He is sedately satis- 
fied. Perhaps there is a rather increased sense of power upon him, 
as he loosely grasps one of his veinous wrists with his other hand, 
and holding it behind his back walks noiselessly up and down. 

There is a capacious writing-table in the room, on which is a 
pretty large accumulation of papers. The green lamp is lighted, . 
his reading-glasses lie upon the desk, the easy chair is wheeled up , 
to it, and it would seem as though he had intended to bestow an j 
hour or so upon these claims on his attention before going to bed. 
But he happens not to be in a business mind. After a glance at 
the documents awaiting his notice — with his head bent low over 
the table, the old man's sight for print or writing being defective 
at night — he opens the French window and steps out upon the 
leads. There he again walks slowly up and down, in the same 
attitude ; subsiding, if a man so cool may have any need to sub- 
side, from the story he has related down-stairs. 

The time was once, when men as knowing as Mr. Tulkinghorn 
would walk on turret-tops in the star-light, and look up into the 
sky to read their fortunes there. Hosts of stars are visible to- 
night, though their brilliancy is eclipsed by the splendour of the 
moon. If he be seeking his own star, as he methodically turns and 
turns upon the leads, it should be but a pale one to be so rustily 
represented below. If he be tracing out his destiny, that may be 
written in other characters nearer to his hand. 

As he paces the leads, with his eyes most probably as high | 



BLEAK HOUSE. 535 

above his thoughts as they are high above the earth, he is suddenly 
stopped in passing the window by two eyes that meet his own. 
The ceiling of his room is rather low ; and the upper part of the 
door, which is opposite the wdudow, is of glass. There is an inner 
baize door too, but the night being warm he did not close it when 
he came up-stairs. These eyes that meet his own, are looking in 
through the glass from the corridor outside. He knows them well. 
The blood has not flushed into his face so suddenly and redly for 
many a long year, as when he recognises Lady Dedlock. 

He steps into the room, and she comes in too, closing both the 
doors behind her. There is a wild disturbance — is it fear or 
anger 1 — in her eyes. In her carriage and all else, she looks as 
she looked down-stairs two hours ago. 

Is it fear, or is it anger, now 1 He cannot be sure. Both might 
be as pale, both as intent. • 

" Lady Dedlock ? " 

She does not speak at first, nor even when she has slowly 
dropped into the easy chair by the table. They look at each other, 
like two pictures. 

" Why have you told my story to so many persons ? " 

"Lady Dedlock, it was necessary for me to inform you that I 
knew it." 

" How long have you known it 1 " 

"I have suspected it a long while — fully known it, a little 
while." 

"Months?" 

" Days." 

He stands before her, with one hand on a chair-back and the 
other in liis old-fashioned waistcoat and shirt-frill, exactly as he 
has stood before her at any time since her marriage. The same 
formal politeness, the same composed deference that might as 
well be defiance ; the whole man the same dark, cold object, at 
the same distance, which nothing has ever diminished. 

" Is this true concerning the poor girl?" 

He slightly inclines and advances his head, as not quite under- 
standing the question. 

" You know what you related. Is it true ? Do her friends 
know my story also ? Is it the town-talk yet ? Is it chalked upon 
the waUs and cried in the streets ? " 

So ! Anger, and fear, and shame. All three contending. What 
power this woman has, to keep these raging passions down ! Mr. 
Tulkinghorn's thoughts take such form as he looks at her, with 
his ragged grey eyebrows a hair's-breadth more contracted than 
usual, under her gaze. 



536 BLEAK HOUSE. 

" No, Lady Dedlock. That was a hypothetical case, arising out 
of Sir Leicester's unconsciously carrying the matter with so high 
a hand. But it would be a real case if they knew — what we 
know." 

" Then they do not know it yet ? " 

" No." 

" Can I save the poor girl from injury before they know it ? " 

"•Really, Lady Dedlock," Mr. Tulkinghorn replies, " I cannot 
give a satisfactory opinion on that point." 

And he thinks, with the interest of attentive curiosity, as he 
watches the stniggle in lier breast, " The power and force of this 
woman are astonishing ! " 

" Sir," she says, for the moment obliged to set her lips with all 
the energy she has, that she may speak distinctly, " I will make it 
plainer. I do not dispute your hypothetical case. I anticipated it, 
and felt its truth as strongly as you can do, when I saw Mr. 
Rouncewell here. I knew very well that if he could have had 
the power of seeing me as I was, he would consider tlie jDoor girl 
tarnished by having for a moment been, although most innocently, 
the subject of my great and distinguished patronage. But, I have 
an interest in her ; or I should rather say — no longer belonging to 
this place — I had ; and if you can find so much consideration for 
the woman under your foot as to remember that, she will be very 
sensible of your mercy." 

Mr. Tulkinghorn, profoundly attentive, throws this off with a 
shrug of self-depreciation, and contracts his eyebrows a little more. 

" You have prepared me for my exposure, and I thank you for 
that too. Is there anything that you require of me ? Is there any 
claim that I can release, or any charge or trouble that I can spare 
my husband in obtaining his release, by certifying to the exactness 
of your discovery ? I will write anything, here and now, that you 
will dictate. I am ready to do it." 

And she would do it ! thinks the lawyer, watchful of the firm 
hand with which she takes the pen ! 

" I will not trouble you. Lady Dedlock. Pray spare yourself." 

" I have long expected this, as you know. I neither wish to 
spare myself, nor to be spared. You can do nothing worse to me i 
than you have done. Do what remains, now." ', 

" Lady Dedlock, there is nothing to be done. I will take leave 
to say a few words, when you have finished." 

Their need for watching one another should be over now, but, 
they do it all this time, and the stars watch them both through 
the opened window. Away in the moonlight lie the woodland 
fields at rest, and the wide house is as quiet as the narrow one. 



BLEAK HOUSE. 587 

The narrow one ! Where are the digger and the spade, this peace- 
ful night, destined to add the last great secret to the many secrets 
of the Tulkinghorn existence ? Is the man born yet, is the spade 
wrought yet 1 Curious questions to consider, more curious perhaps 
not to consider, under the watching stars upon a summer night. 

" Of repentance or remorse, or any feeling of mine," Lady Ded- 
lock presently proceeds, " I say not a word. If I were not dumb, 
you would be deaf. Let that go by. It is not for your ears." 

He makes a feint of offering a protest, but she sweeps it away 
with her disdainful hand. 

" Of other and very different things I come to speak to you. 
My jewels are all in their proper places of keeping. They will be 
found there. So, my dresses. So, all the valuables I have. Some 
ready money I had with me, please to say, but no large amount. 
I did not wear my own dress, in order that I might avoid observa- 
tion. I went, to be henceforward lost. Make this known. I 
leave no other charge with you." 

"Excuse me. Lady Dedlock," says Mr. Tulkinghorn, quite 
unmoved. "I am not sure that I understand you. You 
went? " 

"To be lost to all here. I leave Chesney Wold to-night. I go 
this hour." 

Mr. Tulkinghorn shakes his head. She rises ; but he, without 
removing hand from chair-back or from old-fashioned waistcoat and 
shirt-frill, shakes his head. 

" What 1 Not go as I have said ? " 

"No, Lady Dedlock," he very calmly replies. 

" Do you know the relief that my disappearance will be ? Have 
you forgotten the stain and blot upon this place, and where it is, 
and who it is 1 " 

" No, Lady Dedlock, not by any means." 

Without deigning to rejoin, she moves to the inner door and has 
it in her hand, when he says to her, without himself stirring hand 
or foot, or raising his voice : 

" Lady Dedlock, have the goodness to stop and hear me, or be- 
fore you reach the staircase I shall ring the alarm-bell and rouse 
the house. And then I must speak out, before every guest and 
servant, every man and woman, in it." 

He has conquered her. She falters, trembles, and puts her hand 
confusedly to her head. Slight tokens these in any one else ; but 
when so practised an eye as Mr. Tulkinghorn's sees indecision for a 
moment in such a subject, he thoroughly knows its value. 

He promptly says again, " Have the goodness to hear me, Lady 
Dedlock," and motions to the chair from which she has risen. She 
hesitates, but he motions again, and she sits down. 



538 BLEAK HOUSE. 

"The relations between us are of an unfortunate description, 
Lady Dedlock ; but, as they are not of my making, I will not apol- 
ogise for them. The position I hold in reference to Sir Leicester 
is so well-known to you, that I can hardly imagine but that I must 
long have appeared in your eyes the natural person to make this 
discovery." 

" Sir," she returns, without looking up from the ground, on which 
her eyes are now fixed. " I had better have gone. It would have 
been far better not to have detained me. I have no more to say." 

" Excuse me. Lady Dedlock, if I add a little more to hear." 

" I wish to hear it at the window, then. I can't breathe where 
I am." 

His jealous glance as she walks that way, betrays an instant's 
misgiving that she may have it in her thoughts to leap over, and 
dashing against ledge and cornice, strike her life out upon the ter- 
race below. But, a moment's observation of her figure as she 
stands in the window without any support, looking out at the 
stars — not up — gloomily out at those stars which are low in the 
heavens — reassures him. By facing round as she has moved, he 
stands a little behind her. 

" Lady Dedlock, I have not yet been able to come to a decision 
satisfactory to myself, on the course before me. I am not clear 
what to do, or how to act next. I must request you, in the mean 
time, to keep your secret as you have kept it so long, and not tof 
wonder that I keep it too." 

He pauses, but she makes no reply. 

"Pardon me. Lady Dedlock. This is an important subject.' 
You are honouring me with your attention?" | 

" I am." ' 

" Thank you. I might have known it, from what I have seen 
of your strength of character. I ought not to have asked the ques- 
tion, but I have the habit of making sure of my ground, step by 
step, as I go on. The sole consideration in this unhappy case is 
Sir Leicester." 

" Then why," she asks in a low voice, and without removing her 
gloomy look from those distant stars, "do you detain me in his 
house 1 " 

" Because he is the consideration. Lady Dedlock, I have no 
occasion to tell you that Sir Leicester is a very proud man ; that 
his reliance upon you is implicit ; that the fall of that moon out of 
the sky, would not amaze him more than your fall from your high 
position as his wife." 

She breathes quickly and heavily, but she stands as unflinchingly 
as ever he has seen her in the midst of her grandest company. 



BLEAK HOUSE. 639 

" I declare to you, Lady Dedlock, that with anything short of 
this case that I have, I would as soon have hoped to root up, by 
means of my own strength and my own hands, the oldest tree on 
this estate, as to shake your hold upon Sir Leicester, and Sir 
Leicester's trust and confidence in you. And even now, with this 
case, I hesitate. Not that he could doubt (that, even with him, 
is impossible), but that nothing can prepare him for the blow." 

" Not my flight ?" she returned. " Think of it again." 

"Your flight. Lady Dedlock, would spread the whole truth, and 
a hundred times the whole truth, far and wide. It would be 
impossible to save the family credit for a day. It is not to be 
thought of." 

There is a quiet decision in his reply, which admits of no remon- 
strance. 

" When I speak of Sir Leicester being the sole consideration, he 
and the family credit are one. Sir Leicester and the baronetcy. Sir 
Leicester and Chesney Wold, Sir Leicester and his ancestors and 
his patrimony ; " Mr. Tulkinghorn very dry here ; " are, I need not 
say to you. Lady Dedlock, inseparable." 

" Go on ! " 

"Therefore," says Mr. Tulkinghorn, pursuing his case in his jog- 
trot style, "I have much to consider. This is to be hushed up, if 
it can be. How can it be, if Sir Leicester is driven out of his 
wits, or laid upon a death-bed? If I inflicted this shock upon him 
to-morrow morning, how could the immediate change in him be 
accounted for ? What could have caused it ? What could have 
divided you? Lady Dedlock, the wall-chalking and the street- 
crying would come on directly ; and you are to remember that it 
would not afiect you merely (whom I cannot at all consider in this 
business), but your husband. Lady Dedlock, your husband." 

He gets plainer as he gets on, but not an atom more emphatic 
or animated. 

"There is another point of view," he continues, "in which the 
case presents itself. Sir Leicester is devoted to you almost to 
infatuation. He might not be able to overcome that infatuation, 
even knowing what we know. I am putting an extreme case, but 
it might be so. If so, it were better that he knew nothing. 
Better for common sense, better for him, better for me. I must 
take all this into account, and it combines to render a decision very 
diflicult." 

She stands looking out at the same stars, without a word. 
They are beginning to pale, and she looks as if their coldness froze 
her. 

" My experience teaches me," says Mr. Tulkinghorn, who has by 



640 BLEAK HOUSE. 

this time got his hands in his pockets, and is going on in his busi- 
ness consideration of the matter, like a machine. " My experience 
teaches me. Lady Dedlock, that most of the people I know would 
do far better to leave marriage alone. It is at the bottom of 
three-fourths of their troubles. So I thought when Sir Leicester 
married, and so I always have thought since. No more about 
that. I must now be guided by circumstances. In the meanwhile 
I must beg you to keep your own counsel, and I will keep mine." 

" I am to drag my present life on, holding its pains at your 
pleasure, day by day 1 " she asks, still looking at the distant sky. 

"Yes, I am afraid so. Lady Dedlock." 

" It is necessary, you think, that I should be so tied to the stake 1 " 

" I am sure that what I recommend is necessary." 

" I am to remain upon this gaudy platform, on which my miser- 
able deception has been so long acted, and it is to fall beneath me 
when you give the signal ? " she says slowly. 

" Not without notice, Lady Dedlock. I shall take no step 
without forewarning you." 

She asks all her questions as if she were repeating them from, 
memory, or calling them over in her sleep. i 

" We are to meet as usual V j 

"Precisely as usual, if you please." 

"And I am to hide my guilt, as I have done so many years'?" 

" As you have done so many years. I should not have mader 
that reference myself. Lady Dedlock, but I may now remind you, 
that your secret can be no heavier to you than it was, and is noi 
worse and no better than it was. / know it certainly, but I believe, 
we have never wholly trusted each other." 

She stands absorbed in the same frozen way for some little time, 
before asking : 

" Is there anything more to be said to-night V 

" Why," Mr. Tulkinghorn returns methodically, as he softly rubs) 
his hands, " I should like to be assured of your acquiescence in my 
arrangements. Lady Dedlock." 

"You may be assured of it." 

" Grood. And I would wish in conclusion to remind you, as a 
business precaution, in case it should be necessaiy to recall the fact 
in any communication with Sir Leicester, that throughout our 
interview I have expressly stated my sole consideration to be Sir 
Leicester's feelings and honour, and the family reputation. I should 
have been happy to have made Lady Dedlock a prominent consid- 
eration too, if the case had admitted of it ; but unfortunately it 
does not." 

" I can attest your fidelity, sir." 



BLEAK HOUSE. 541 

Both before and after saying it, she remains absorbed ; but at 
length moves, and turns, unshaken in her natural and acquired 
presence, towards the door. Mr. Tulkinghorn opens both the doors 
exactly as he would have done yesterday, or as he would have done 
ten years ago, and makes his old-fashioned bow as she passes out. 
It is not an ordinary look that he receives from the handsome face 
as it goes into the darkness, and it is not an ordinary movement, 
though a very slight one, that acknowledges his courtesy. But, as 
he reflects when he is left alone, the woman has been putting no 
conunon constraint upon herself 

He would know it all the better, if he saw the woman pacing 
her own rooms with her hair wildly thrown from her flung back 
face, her hands clasped behind her head, her figure twisted as if by 
pain. He would think so all the more, if he saw the woman thus 
hurrying up and down for hours, without fatigue, without inter- 
mission, followed by the faithful step upon the Ghost's Walk. But 
he shuts out the now chilled air, draws the window-curtain, goes to 
bed, and falls asleep. And truly when the stars go out and the 
wan day peeps into the turret chamber, finding him at his oldest, 
he looks as if the digger and the spade were both commissioned, 
and would soon be digging. 

The same wan day peeps in at Sir Leicester pardoning the 
repentant country in a majestically condescending dream ; and at 
the cousins entering on various public employments, principally 
receipt of salary ; and at the chaste Volumnia, bestowing a dower 
of fifty thousand pounds upon a hideous old General, with a mouth 

■ of false teeth like a pianoforte too full of keys, long the admira- 
tion of Bath and the terror of every other community. Also into 

i rooms high in the roof, and into offices in courtyards and over 

stables, where humbler ambition dreams of bliss in keeper's lodges, 

; and in holy matrimony with Will or Sally. Up comes the bright 

■ sun, drawing everything up with it — the Wills and Sallys, the 
J latent vapour in the earth, the drooping leaves and flowers, the 

birds and beasts and creeping things, the gardeners to sweep 
t the dewy turf and unfold emerald velvet where the roller passes, 

the smoke of the great kitchen fire wreathing itself straight and 
: high into the lightsome air. Lastly, up comes the flag over Mr. 
' Tulkinghorn's unconscious head, cheerfully proclaiming that Sir 

Leicester and Lady Dedlock ai'e in their happy home, and that 

there is hospitality at the place in Lincolnshire. 



542 BLEAK HOUSE. 

i 
CHAPTER XLII. . 

IN MR. TULKINGHORN'^4 CHAMBERS. 

From the verdant undulations and the spreading oaks of the 
Dedlock property, Mr. Tulkinghorn transfers himself to the stale 
heat and dust of London. His manner of coming and going be- 
tween the two places, is one of his impenetrabilities. He walks 
into Chesney Wold as if it were next door to his chambers, and 
returns to his chambers as if he had never been out of Lincoln's 
Inn Fields. He neither changes his dress before the journey, nor 
talks of it afterwards. He melted out of his turret-room this 
morning, just as now, in the late twilight, he melts into his 
own square. 

Like a dingy London bird among the birds at roost in these 
pleasant fields, where the sheep are all made into parchment, the 
goats into wigs, and the pasture into chaff, the lawyer smoke-dried | 
and faded, dwelling among mankind but not consorting with them, : 
aged without experience of genial youth, and so long used to make 
his cramped nest in holes and corners of human nature that he j 
has forgotten its broader and better range, comes sauntering home. ' 
In the oven made by the hot pavements and hot buildings, he 
has baked himself dryer than usual ; and he has, in his thirsty 
mind, his mellowed port-wine half a century old. 

The lamplighter is skipping up and down his ladder on Mr. 
Tulkinghorn's side of the Fields, when that high-priest of noble 
mysteries arrives at his own dull courtyard. He ascends the 
door-steps and is gliding into the dusky hall, when he encoun- 
ters, on the top step, a bowing and propitiatory little man. 

"Is that Snagsbyl" 

" Yes, sir. I hope you are well, sir. I was just giving you up, 
sir, and going home." 

" Aye 1 What is it ? What do you want with me ? " ; 

"Well, sir," says Mr. Snagsby, holding his hat at the side of his' 
head, in his deference towards his best customer. " I was wishful 
to say a word to you, sir." 

" Can you say it here V i 

" Perfectly, sir." ' 

" Say it then." The lawyer turns, leans his arms on the iron 
railing at the top of the steps, and looks at the lamplighter light- 
ing the courtyard. 

"It is relating," says Mr. Snagsby, in a mysterious low voice : 
"it is relating — not to put too fine a point upon it — to the 
foreigner, sir." 



BLEAK HOUSE. 543 

Mr. Tulkinghorn eyes him with some surprise. " What 
foreigner 1 " 

"The foreign female, sir. French, if I don't mistake? I am 
not acquainted with that language myself, but I should judge from 
her manners and appearance that she was French : anyways, cer- 
tainly foreign. Her that was up-stairs, sir, when Mr. Bucket and 
me had the honour of waiting upon you with the sweeping-boy that 
night." 

"Oh! yes, yes. Mademoiselle Hortense." 

" Indeed, sir ? " Mr. Snagsby coughs his cough of submission 
behind his hat. " I am not acquainted myself with the names 
of foreigners in general, but I have no doubt it ivould be that." 
Mr. Snagsby appears to have set out in this reply with some des- 
perate design of repeating the name ; but on reflection coughs again 
to excuse himself. 

"And what can you have to say, Snagsby," demands Mr. Tulk- 
inghorn, "about her?" 

"Well, sir," returns the stationer, shading his communication 
with his hat, " it falls a little hard upon me. My domestic happi- 
ness is very great — • at least, it's as great as can be expected, I'm 
sure — but my little woman is rather given to jealousy. Not to 
put too fine a point upon it, she is very much given to jealousy. 
And you see, a foreign female of that genteel appearance coming 
into the shop, and hovering — I should be the last to make use of 
a strong expression, if I could avoid it, but hovering, sir — in the 
court — you know it is — now ain't it ? I only put it to your- 
self, sir." 

Mr. Snagsby having said this in a very plaintive manner, throws 
in a cough of general application to fill up all the blanks. 

" Why, what do you mean 1 " asks Mr. Tulkinghorn. 

"Just so, sir," returns Mr. Snagsby; "I was sure you would 
feel it yourself, and would excuse the reasonableness of my feelings 
when coupled with the known excitableness of my little woman. 
You see, the foreign female — which you mentioned her name just 
now, with quite a native sound I am sure — caught up the word 
Snagsby that night, being uncommon quick, and made inquiry, and 
got the direction and come at dinner-time. Now Guster, our 
young woman, is timid and has fits, and she, taking fright at the 
foreigner's looks — which are fierce — and at a grinding manner 
that she has of speaking — which is calculated to alarm a weak 
mind — gave way to it, instead of bearing up against it, and 
tumbled down the kitchen stairs out of one into another, such fits 
as I do sometimes think are never gone into, or come out of, in any 
house but ours. Consequently there was by good fortune ample 



544 BLEAK HOUSE. 

occupation for my little woman, and only me to answer the shop. 
When she did say that Mr. Tulkinghorn, being always denied to 
her by his Employer (which I had no doubts at the time was a for- 
eign mode of viewing a clerk), she would do herself the pleasure of 
continually calling at my place until she was let in here. Since 
then she has been, as I began by saying, hovering — Hovering, sir," 
Mr. Snagsby repeats the word with pathetic emphasis "in the 
court. The effects of which movement it is impossible to calculate. 
I shouldn't wonder if it might have already given rise to the pain- 
fullest mistakes even in the neighbours' minds, not mentioning (if 
such a thing was possible) my little woman. Whereas, Goodness 
knows," says Mr. Snagsby, shaking his head," I never had an idea 
of a foreign female, except as being formerly connected with a 
bunch of brooms and a baby, or at the present time with a tam- 
bourine and ear-rings. I never had, I do assure you, sir ! " 

Mr. Tulkinghorn has listened gravely to this complaint, and 
inquires, when the stationer has finished, "And that's all, is it,, 
Snagsby?" 

"Why yes, sir, that's all," says Mr. Snagsby, ending with a 
cough that plainly adds, " and it's enough too — for me." 

" I don't know what Mademoiselle Hortense may want or mean, 
unless she is mad," says the lawyer. 

"Even if she was, you know, sir," Mr. Snagsby pleads, "it 
wouldn't be a consolation to have some weapon or another in the 
form of a foreign dagger, planted in the family." 

" No," says the other. " Well, well ! This shall be stopped. I 
am sorry you have been inconvenienced. If she comes again, send 
her here." 

Mr. Snagsby, with much bowing and short apologetic coughing, 
takes his leave, lightened in heart. Mr. Tulkinghorn goes up- 
stairs, saying to himself, " These women were created to give trou- 
ble, the whole earth over. The Mistress not being enough to deal- 
with, here's the maid now ! But I will be short with this jade 
at least ! " 

So saying, he unlocks his door, gropes his way into his murky 
rooms, lights his candles, and looks about him. It is too dark to 
see much of allegory overhead there ; but that importunate Roman, 
who is for ever toppling out of the clouds and pointing, is at his old 
work pretty distinctly. Not honouring him with much attention, 
Mr. Tulkinghorn takes a small key from his pocket, unlocks a 
drawer in which there is another key, which unlocks a chest in 
which there is another, and so comes to the cellar-key, with which 
he prepares to descend to the regions of old wine. He is going 
towards the door with a candle in his hand, when a knock comes. 



BLEAK HOUSE. 545 

" Who's this ? — Aye, aye, mistress, it's you, is it 1 You appear 
at a good time. I have just been hearing of you. Now ! What 
do you want ? " 

He stands the candle on the chimney-piece in the clerks' hall, 
and taps his dry cheek with the key, as he addresses these words of 
welcome to Mademoiselle Hortense. That feline personage, with 
her lips tightly shut, and her eyes looking out at him sideways, 
softly closes the door before replying. 

" I have had great deal of trouble to find you, sir." 

"iTaveyou!" 

"I have been here veiy often, sir. It has always been said to 
me, he is not at home, he is engage, he is this and that, he is not 
for you." 

" Quite right, and quite true." 

" Not true. Lies ! " 

At times, there is a suddenness in the manner of Mademoiselle 
Hortense so like a bodily spring upon the subject of it, that such 
subject involuntarily starts and falls back. It is Mr. Tulkinghorn's 
case at jDresent, though Mademoiselle Hortense, with her eyes 
almost shut up (but still looking out sideways), is only smiling 
contemptuously and shaking her head. 

" Now, mistress," says the lawyer, tapping the key hastily upon 
the chimney-piece. "If you have anything to say, say it, say it." 

" Sir, you have not use me well. You have been mean and shabby." 

" Mean and shabby, eh 1 " returns the lawyer, rubbing his nose 
with the key. 

"Yes. What is it that I tell you? You know you have. 
You have attrapped me — catched me — to give you information; 
; you have asked me to show you the dress of mine my Lady must 
! have wore that night, you have prayed me to come in it here to 
I meet that boy — Say ! Is it not 1 " Mademoiselle Hortense 
I makes another spring. 

" You are a vixen, a vixen ! " Mr. Tulkinghorn seems to medi- 
t tate, as he looks distrustfully at her ; then he replies, " Well, wench, 
> well. I paid you." 

" You paid me ! " she repeats, with fierce disdain. " Two sover- 
eign ! I have not change them, I ref-use them, I des-pise them, I 
t throw them from me ! " Which she literally does, taking them 
out of her bosom as she speaks, and flinging them with such vio- 
lence on the floor, that they jerk up again into the light before 
they roll away into corners, and slowly settle down there after 
spinning vehemently. 

" Now ! " says Mademoiselle Hortense, darkening her large eyes 
again. " You have paid me t Eh my God, yes ! " 

2n 



546 BLEAK HOUSE. 

Mr. Tulkinghorn rubs his head with the key, while she enter- 
tains herself with a sarcastic laugh. 

"You must be rich, my fair friend," he composedly observes, 
" to throw money about in that way !," 

" I am rich," she returns, "I am very rich in hate. I hate my 
Lady, of all my heart. You know that." 

" Know it 1 How should I know it 1 " 

"Because you have known it perfectly, before you prayed me to 
give you that information. Because you have known perfectly that 
I was en-r-r-r-raged ! " It appears impossible for Mademoiselle to 
roll the letter r sufficiently in this word, notwithstanding that she 
assists her energetic delivery, by clenching both her hands, and set- 
ting all her teeth. 

" Oh ! I knew that, did I ? " says Mr. Tulkinghorn, examining the 
wards of the key. 

" Yes, without doubt. I am not blind. You have made sure of 
me because you knew that. You had reason ! I det-est her." Made- 
moiselle Hortense folds her arms, and throws this last remark at 
him over one of her shoulders. 

"Having said this, have you anything else to say, Mademoi-i 
selle?" 

" I am not yet placed. Place me well. Find me a good condi- 
tion ! If you cannot, or do not choose to do that, employ me to pur- 
sue her, to chase her, to disgrace and to dishonour her. I will help 
you well, and with a good will. It is what pou do. Do I not 
know that 1 " 

" You appear to know a good deal," Mr. Tulkinghorn re- 
torts. 

" Do I not 1 Is it' that I am so weak as to believe, like a child, 
that I come here in that dress to rec-eive that boy, only to decide a 
little bet, a wager ? — - Eh my God, yes ! " In this reply, down to 
the word " wager " inclusive. Mademoiselle has been ironically polite 
and tender ; then, has suddenly dashed into the bitterest and most 
defiant scorn, with her black eyes in one and the same moment very 
nearly shut, and staringly wide open. 

"Now, let us see," says Mr. Tulkinghorn, tapping his chin with 
the key, and looking imperturbably at her, "how this matter 
stands." 

"Ah ! Let us see," Mademoiselle assents, with many angry and 
tight nods of her head. 

" You come here to make a remarkably modest demand, which 
you have just stated, and it not being conceded, you will come 
again." 

"And again," says Mademoiselle, with more tight and angry nods. 



BLEAK HOUSE. 647 

" And yet again. And yet again. And many times again. In 
effect, for ever ! " 

"And not only here, but you will go to Mr. Snagsby's too, 
perhaps? That visit not succeeding either, you will go again, 
perhaps ? " 

"And again," repeats Mademoiselle, cataleptic with determina- 
tion. " And yet again. And yet again. And many times again. 
In effect, for ever." 

"Very well. Now Mademoiselle Hortense, let me recommend 
you to take the candle and pick up that money of yours. I think 
you will find it behind the clerks' partition in the corner yonder." 

She merely throws a laugh over her shoulder, and stands her 
ground with folded arms. 

" You will not, eh ? " 

" No, I wall not ! " 

" So much the poorer you ; so much the richer 1 1 Look, mis- 
tress, this is the key of my wine-cellar. It is a large key, but the 
keys of prisons are larger. In this city, there are houses of correc- 
tion (where the treadmills are, for women) the gates of which are 
very strong and heavy, and no doubt the keys too. I am afraid a 
lady of your spirit and activity would find it an inconvenience to 
have one of those keys turned upon her for any length of time. 
What do you think ? " 

" I think," Mademoiselle replies, without any action, and in a 
clear obliging voice, "that you are a miserable wTetch." 

" Probably," returns Mr. Tulkinghorn, quietly blowing his nose. 
"But I don't ask what you think of myself; I ask what you think 
of the prison." 

" Nothing. What does it matter to me 1 " 

"Why, it matters this much, mistress," says the lavryer, deliber- 
ately putting away his handkerchief, and adjusting his frill, " the 
law is so despotic here, that it interferes to prevent any of our 
good English citizens from being troubled, even by a lady's visits, 
against his desire. And, on his complaining that he is so troubled, 
it takes hold of the troublesome lady, and shuts her up in prison 
1 under hard discipline. Turns the key upon her, mistress." Illus- 
trating with the cellar-key. 

" Truly 1 " returns Mademoiselle, in the same pleasant voice. 
" That is droll ! But — my faith ! — still what does it matter to 
'me?" 

"My fair friend," says Mr. Tulkinghorn, "make another visit 
1 here, or at Mr. Snagsby's, and you shall learn." 

" In that case you will send Me to the prison, perhaps ? " 
i "Perhaps." 



548 BLEAK HOUSE. 

It would be contradictory for one in Mademoiselle's ^state of agree- 
able jocularity to foam at the mouth, otherwise a tigerish expansion 
thereabouts might look as if a very little more would make her 
do it. 

"In a word, mistress," says Mr. Tulkinghorn, "I am sorry to be 
unpolite, but if you ever present yourself uninvited here — or there 
— again, I will give you over to the police. Their gallantry is ^ 
great, but they carry troublesome people through the streets in an 
ignominious manner ; strapped down on a board, my good wench." 

"I will prove you," whispers Mademoiselle, stretching out her 
hand, " I will try if you dare to do it ! " 

"And if," pursues the lawyer, without minding her, "I place, 
you in that good condition of being locked up in jail, it will be ' 
some time before you find yourself at liberty again." 

" I will prove you," repeats Mademoiselle in her former whisper. 

" And now," proceeds the lawyer, still without minding her, " you 
had better go. Think twice, before you come here again." 

" Think you," she answers, " twice two hundred times ! " 

" You were dismissed by your lady, you know," Mr. Tulkinghorn 
observes, following her out upon the staircase, " as the most impla- 
cable and unmanageable of women. Now turn over a new leaf, and 
take warning by what I say to you. For what I say, I mean ; and 
what I threaten, I will do, mistress." 

She goes down without answering or looking behind her. When 
she is gone, he goes down too ; and returning with his cobweb-covered 
bottle, devotes himself to a leisurely enjoyment of its contents : 
now and then, as he throws his head back in his chair, catching 
sight of the pertinacious Koman pointing from the ceiling. 



CHAPTER XLIII. 

Esther's narrative. 

It matters little now, how much I thought of my living mother 
who had told me evermore to consider her dead. I could not vent- 
ure to approach her, or to communicate with her in writing, for 
my sense of the peril in which her life was passed was only to be 
equalled by my fears of increasing it. Knowing that my mere 
existence as a living creature was an unforeseen danger in her way, 
I eould not always conquer that terror of myself which had seized 
me when I first knew the secret. At no time did I dare to utter 
her name. I felt as if I did not even dare to hear it. If the con- 
versation anywhere, when I was present, took that direction, as it 



BLEAK HOUSE. 549 

sometimes naturally did, I tried not to hear — I mentally counted, 
repeated something that I knew, or went out of the room. I am 
conscious, now, that I often did these things when there can have 
been no danger of her being spoken of; but I did them in the dread I 
had of hearing anything that might lead to her betrayal, and to her 
betrayal through me. 

It matters little now how often I recalled the tones of my mother's 
voice, wondered whether I should ever hear it again as I so longed 
to do, and thought how strange and desolate it was that it should 
be so new to me. It matters little that I watched for every public 
mention of my mother's name ; that I passed and repassed the door 
of her house in town, loving it, but afraid to look at it ; that I once 
sat in the theatre when my mother was there and saw me, and 
when we were so wide asunder, before the great company of all 
degrees, that any link or confidence between us seemed a dream. 
It is all, all over. My lot has been so blest that I can relate little 
of myself which is not a story of goodness and generosity in others. 
I may well pass that little, and go on. 

When we were settled at home again, Ada and I had many con- 
versations with my Guardian, of which Richard was the theme. 
My dear girl was deeply grieved that he should do their kind 
cousin so much wrong ; but she was so faithful to Richard, that 
she could not bear to blame him, even for tliat. My Guardian was 
assured of it, and never couj^led his name with a word of reproof. 
*' Rick is mistaken, my dear," he would say to her. "Well, well ! 
we have all been mistaken over and over again. We must trust to 
you and time to set him right." 

We knew afterwards what we suspected then ; that he did not 
trust to time until he had often tried to open Richard 's eyes. 
That he had written to him, gone to him, talked with him, tried 
every gentle and persuasive art his kindness could devise. Our 
poor devoted Richard was deaf and blind to all. If he were 
wrong, he would make amends when the Chancery suit was over. 
If he were groping in the dark, he could not do better than do his 
utmost to clear away those clouds in which so much was confused 
and obscured. Suspicion and misunderstanding were the fault of 
the suit? Then let him work the suit out, and come through it 
to his right mind. This was his unvarying reply. Jarndyce and 
Jarndyce had obtained such possession of his whole nature, that it 
was impossible to place any consideration before him which he did 
not — with a distorted kind of reason — make a new argument in 
favour of his doing what he did. " So that it is even more mis- 
chievous," said my Guardian once to me, "to remonstrate with the 
poor dear fellow, than to leave him alone." 



550 BLEAK HOUSE. 

I took one of these opportunities of mentioning my doubts of 
Mr. Skimpole as a good adviser for Richard. 

"Adviser?" returned my Guardian, laughing. "My dear, who 
would advise with Skimpole 1 " 

"Encourager would perhaps have been a better word," said I. 

" Encourager ! " returned my Guardian again. " Who could be 
encouraged by Skimpole 1 " 

" Not Richard 1 " I asked. 

" No," he replied. " Such an unworldly, uncalculating, gossamer 
creature, is a relief to him, and an amusement. But as to advis- 
ing or encouraging, or occupying a serious station towards anybody 
or anything, it is simply not to be thought of in such a child as 
Skimpole." 

"Pray, cousin John," said Ada, who had just joined us, and now 
looked over my shoulder, " what made him such a child ? " 

" What made him such a child ? " inquired my Guardian, rub- 
bing his head, a little at a loss. 

"Yes, cousin John." 

"Why," he slowly replied, roughening his head more and more, 
" he is all sentiment, and — and susceptibility, and — and sensi- 
bility — and — and imagination. And these qualities are not reg- 
ulated in him, somehow. I suppose the people who admired him 
for them in his youth, attached too much importance to them, and 
too little to any training that would have balanced and adjusted 
them ; and so he became what he is. Hey ? " said my Guardian, 
stopping short, and looking at us hopefully. " What do you think, 
you two ? " 

Ada, glancing at me, said she thought it was a pity he should be 
an expense to Richard." 

"So it is, so it is," returned my Guardian, hurriedly. "That 
must not be. We must arrange that. I must prevent it. That 
will never do." 

And I said I thought it was to be regretted that he had ever 
introduced Richard to Mr. Vholes, for a present of five pounds. 

" Did he ?" said my Guardian, with a passing shade of vexation 
on his face. " But there you have the man. There you have the 
man ! There is nothing mercenary in that, with him. He has no 
idea of the value of money. He introduces Rick ; and then he is 
good friends with Mr. Vholes, and borrows five pounds of him. 
He means nothing by it, and thinks nothing of it. He told you 
himself, I'll be bound, my dear?" 

" yes ! " said I. 

" Exactly ! " cried my Guardian, quite triumphant. " There 
you have the man ! If he had meant any harm by it, or was con- 



BLEAK HOUSE. 551 

scions of any harm in it, he wouldn't tell it. He tells it as he 
does it, in mere simplicity. But you shall see him in his own 
home, and then you'll understand him better. We must pay a 
visit to Harold Skimpole, and caution him on these points. Lord 
bless you, my dears, an infant, an infant ! " 

In pursuance of this plan, we went into London on an early day, 
and presented ourselves at Mr. Skimpole's door. 

He lived in a place called the Polygon, in Somers Town, where 
there were at that time a number of poor Spanish refugees walk- 
ing about in cloaks, smoking little paper cigars. Whether he 
was a better tenant than one might have supposed, in consequence 
of his friend Somebody always paying his rent at last, or whether 
his inaptitude for business rendered it particularly difficult to turn 
him out, I don't know ; but he had occupied the same house some 
years. It was in a state of dilapidation quite equal to our expec- 
tation. Two or three of the area railings were gone ; the water- 
butt was broken ; the knocker was loose ; the bell handle had 
been pulled off a long time, to judge from the rusty state of the 
wire ; and dirty footprints on the steps were the only signs of 
its being inhabited. 

A slatternly full-blown girl, who seemed to be bursting out at 
the rents in her gown and the cracks in her shoes, like an over- 
ripe berry, answered our knock by opening the door a very little 
way, and stopping up the gap with her figiu'e. As she knew 
Mr. Jarndyce (indeed Ada and I both thought that she evidently 
associated him with the receipt of her wages), she immediately 
relented and allowed us to pass in. The lock of the door being 
in a disabled condition, she then applied herself to securing it 
with the chain which was not in good action either, and said 
would we go up-stairs ? 

We went up-stairs to the first floor, still seeing no other furni- 
ture than the dirty footprints. Mr. Jarndyce, without further 
ceremony, entered a room there, and we followed. It was dingy 
enough, and not at all clean ; but furnished with an odd kind 
of shabby luxury, with a large footstool, a sofa, and plenty of 
cushions, an easy chair, and plenty of pillows, a piano, books, 
drawing materials, music, newspapers, and a few sketches and 
pictures. A broken pane of glass in one of the dirty windows 
was papered and wafered over ; but there was a little plate of 
hothouse nectarines on the table, and there was another of grapes, 
and another of sponge-cakes, and there was a bottle of light wine. 
Mr. Skimpole himself reclined upon the sofa, in a dressing-gown, 
drinking some fragrant coffee from an old china cup — it was then 
about midday — and looking at a collection of wallflowers in the 
balcony. 



652 BLEAK HOUSE. 

He was not in the least disconcerted by our appearance, but 
rose and received us in his usual airy manner. 

" Here I am, you see ! " he said, when we were seated : not with- 
out some little difficulty, the greater part of the chairs being 
broken. " Here I am ! This is my frugal breakfast. Some 
men want legs of beef and mutton for breakfast ; I don't. Give 
me my peach, my cup of coffee, and my claret . I am content. 
I don't want them for themselves, but they remind me of tlie 
sun. There's nothing solar about legs of beef and mutton. Mere 
animal satisfaction ! " 

" This is our friend's consulting room (or would be, if he ever 
prescribed), his sanctum, his studio," said my Guardian to us. 

"Yes," said Mr. Skimpole, turning his bright face about, "this 
is the bird's cage. This is where the bird lives and sings. They 
pluck his feathers now and then, and clip his wings ; but he sings, 
he sings ! " 

He handed us the grapes, repeating in his radiant way, " he 
sings ! Not an ambitious note, but stili he sings." 

" These are very fine," said my Guardian. " A present ? " 

" No," he answered. " No ! Some amiable gardener sells them. 
His man wanted to know, when he brought them last evening, 
whether he should wait for the money. 'Really, my friend,' I 
said, 'I think not — if your time is of any value to you.' I sup- 
pose it was, for he went away." 

My Guardian looked at us with a smile, as though he asked us, 
" is it possible to be worldly with this baby ? " 

" This is a day," said Mr. Skimpole, gaily taking a little claret in j 
a tumbler, " that will ever be remembered here. "We shall call it 
the Saint Clare and Saint Summerson day. You must see my daugh- 
ters. I have a blue-eyed daughter who is my Beauty daughter, 
I have a Sentiment daughter, and I have a Comedy daughter. 
You must see them all. They'll be enchanted." 

He was going to summon them, when my Guardian interposed, 
and asked him to pavise a moment, as he wished to say a word 
to him first. "My dear Jarndyce," he cheerfully replied, going 
back to his sofa, " as many moments as you please. Time is no 
object here. We never know what o'clock it is, and we never 
care. Not the way to get on in life, you'll tell me ? Certainly. 
But we don't get on in life. We don't pretend to do it." 

My Guardian looked at us again, plainly saying, "You hear 
him?" 

" Now Harold," he began, " the word I have to say, relates to 
Rick." 

" The dearest friend I have ! " returned Mr. Skimpole, cordially. 



BLEAK HOUSE. 553 

" I suppose he ought not to be my dearest friend, as he is not on 
terms with you. But he is, I can't help it ; he is full of youthful 
poetry, and I love him. If you don't like it, I can't help it. I 
love him." 

The engaging frankness with which he made this declaration, 
really had a disinterested appearance, and captivated my Guardian ; 
if not, for the moment, Ada too. 

"You are welcome to love him as much as you like," returned 
Mr. Jarndyce, "but we must save his pocket, Harold." 

" Oh ! " said Mr. Skimpole. " His pocket 1 Now, you are 
coming to what I don't understand." Taking a little more 
claret, and dipping one of the cakes in it, he shook his head, 
and smiled at Ada and rae with an ingenuous foreboding that 
he never could be made to understand. 

" If you go with him here or there," said my Guardian, plainly, 
"you must not let him pay for both." 

"My dear Jarndyce," returned Mr. Skimpole, his genial face irra- 
diated by the comicality of this idea, " what am I to do ? If he 
takes me anywhere, I must go. And how can / pay ? I never 
have any money. If I had any money, I don't know anything 
about it. Suppose I say to a man, how much ? Suppose the man 
says to me seven and sixpence ? I know nothing about seven and 
sixpence. It is impossible for me to pursue the subject, with any 
consideration for the man. I don't go about asking busy people 
what seven and sixpence is in Moorish — which I don't understand. 
Why should I go about asking them what seven and sixpence is in 
Money — which I don't understand ? " 

" Well," said my Guardian, by no means displeased with this 
artless reply, "if you come to any kind of journeying with Rick, you 
must borrow the money of me (never breathing the least allusion 
to that circumstance), and leave the calculation to him." 

"My dear Jarndyce," returned Mr. Skimpole, "I will do any- 
thing to give you pleasure, but it seems an idle form — a super- 
stition. Besides, I give you my word. Miss Clare and my dear 
Miss Summerson, I thought Mr. Carstone was immensely rich. I 
thought he had only to make over something, or to sign a bond, or 
a draft, or a cheque, or a bill, or to put something on a file some- 
where, to bring down a shower of money." 

" Indeed it is not so, sir," said Ada. "He is poor." 

"No, really?" returned Mr. Skimpole, with his bright smile, 
"you surprise me." 

" And not being the richer for trusting in a rotten reed," said my 
Guardian, laying his hand emphatically on the sleeve of Mr. Skim- 
pole's dressing-gown, " be you very careful not to encourage him in 
that reliance, Harold." 



554 BLEAK HOUSE. 

"My dear good friend," returned Mr. Skimpole, "and my dear 
Miss Summerson, and my dear Miss Clare, how can I do that ? It's 
business, and I don't know business. It is he who encourages me. 
He emerges from great feats of business, presents the brightest 
prospects before me as their result, and calls upon me to admire 
them. I do admire them — as bright prospects. But I know no 
more about them, and I tell him so." 

The helpless kind of candour with which he presented this before 
us, the lighthearted manner in which he was amused by his inno- 
cence, the fantastic way in which he took himself under his own 
protection and argued about that curious person, combined with 
the delightful ease of everything he said exactly to make out my 
Guardian's case. The more I saw of him, the more unlikely it 
seemed to me, when he was present, that he could design, conceal, 
or influence anything ; and yet the less likely that appeared when 
he was not present,' and the less agreeable it was to think of his 
having anything to do with any one for whom I cared. 

Hearing that his examination (as he called it) was now over, Mr. 
Skimpole left the room with a radiant face to fetch his daughters 
(his sons had run away at various times), leaving my Guardian 
quite delighted by the manner in which he had vindicated his child- 
ish character. He soon came back, bringing with him the three 
young ladies and Mrs. Skimpole, who had once been a beauty, but 
was now a delicate high-nosed invalid suffering under a complication 
of disorders. 

"This," said Mr. Skimpole, "is my Beauty daughter, Arethusa 
— plays and sings odds and ends like her father. This is my. 
Sentiment daughter, Laura — plays a little but don't sing. This is' 
my Comedy daughter, Kitty — sings a little but don't play. We 
all draw a little, and compose a little, and none of us have any idea 
of time or money." 

Mrs. Skimpole sighed, I thought, as if she would have been glad 
to strike out this item in the family attainments. I also thought 
that she rather impressed her sigh upon my Guardian, and that she 
took every opportunity of throwing in another. 

"It is pleasant," said Mr. Skimpole, turning his sprightly eyea 
from one to the other of us, "and it is whimsically interesting, to 
trace peculiarities in families. In this family we are all children, 
and I am the youngest." 

The daughters, who appeared to be very fond of him, were 
amused by this droll fact; particularly the Comedy daughter. 

"My dears, it is true," said Mr. Skimpole, "is it not? So it is, 
and so it must be, because, like the dogs in the hymn, 'it is our 
nature to.' Now, here is Miss Summerson with a fine administra- 



BLEAK HOUSE. 555 

tive capacity, and a knowledge of details perfectly surprising. It 
will sound very strange in Miss Summerson's ears, I dare say, that 
we know nothing about chops in this house. But we don't ; not 
the least. We can't cook anything whatever. A needle and 
thread we don't know how to use. We admire the people who 
possess the practical wisdom we want ; but we don't quarrel with 
them. Then why should they quarrel with us ? Live, and let 
live, we say to them. Live upon your practical wisdom, and let us 
live upon you ! " 

He laughed, but, as usual, seemed quite candid, and really to 
mean what he said. 

"We have sympathy, my roses," said Mr. Skimpole, "sympathy 
for everything. Have we not ? " 

" yes, papa ! " cried the three daughters. 

"In fact, that is our family department," said Mr. Skimpole, 
" in this hurly-burly of life. We are capable of looking on and of 
being interested, and we do look on, and we are interested. What 
more can we do ! Here is my Beauty daughter, married these 
three years. Now, I dare say her marrying another child, and 
having two more, was all wrong in point of political economy ; but 
it was very agreeable. We had our little festivities on those occa- 
sions, and exchanged social ideas. She brought her young husband 
home one day, and they and their young fledgelings have their 
nest up-stairs. I dare say, at some time or other. Sentiment and 
Comedy will bring their husbands home, and have their nests up- 
stairs too. So we get on ; we don't know how, but somehow." 

She looked very young indeed, to be the mother of two children ; 
and I could not help pitying both her and them. It was evident 
that the three daughters had grown up as they could, and had had 
just as little hap-hazard instruction as qualified them to be their 
father's playthings in his idlest hours. His pictorial tastes were 
consulted, I observed, in their respective styles of wearing their 
hair ; the Beauty daughter being in the classic manner ; the Senti- 
ment daughter luxuriant and flowing ; and the Comedy daughter in 
the arch style, with a good deal of sprightly forehead, and vivacious 
little curls dotted about the corners of her eyes. They were dressed 
to correspond, though in a most untidy and negligent way. 

Ada and I conversed with these young ladies, and found them 
wonderfully like their father. In the meanwhile Mr. Jarndyce (who 
had been rubbing his head to a great extent, and hinting at a 
change in the wind) talked with Mrs. Skimpole in a corner, where 
we could not help hearing the chink of money. Mr. Skimpole had 
previously volunteered to go home with us, and had withdrawn to 
dress himself for the purpose. 



556 BLEAK HOUSE. 

" My roses," he said, when he came back, " take care of mama. 
She is poorly to-day. By going home with Mr. Jarndyce for a day 
or two, I shall hear the larks sing, and preserve my amiability. 
It has been tried, you know, and would be tried again if I remained 
at home." 

" That bad man ! " said the Comedy daughter. 

"At the very time when he knew papa was lying down by his 
wallflowers, looking at the blue sky," Laura complained. 

" And when the smell of hay was in the air ! " said Arethusa. 

"It showed a want of poetry in the man," Mr. Skimpole as- 
sented ; but with perfect good-humour. " It was coarse. There 
was an absence of the finer touches of humanity in it ! My daugh- 
ters have taken great offence," he explained to us, "at an honest 
man " 

" Not honest, papa. Impossible ! " they all three protested. 

" At a rough kind of fellow • — a sort of human hedge-hog rolled 
up," said Mr. Skimpole, " who is a baker in this neighbourhood, 
and from whom we borrowed a couple of arm-chairs. We wanted 
a couple of arm-chairs, and we hadn't got them, and therefore of 
course we looked to a man who had got them, to lend them. Well ! 
this morose person lent them, and we wore them out. When they 
were worn out, he wanted them back. He had them back. He 
was contented, you will say. Not at all. He objected to their 
being worn. I reasoned with him, and pointed out his mistake. 
I said, ' Can you, at your time of life, be so headstrong, my friend, 
as to persist that an arm-chair is a thing to put upon a shelf and 
look at ? That it is an object to contemplate, to survey from a dis- 
tance, to consider from a point of sight? Don't you know that 
these arm-chairs were borrowed to be sat upon ? ' He was unrea- 
sonable and unpersuadable, and used intemperate language. Being 
as patient as I am at this minute, I addressed another appeal to 
him. I said, ' Now, my good man, however our business capacities 
may vary, we are all children of one great mother, Nature. On 
this blooming summer morning here you see me ' (I was on the 
sofa) ' with flowers before me, frait upon the table, the cloudless sky 
above me, the air full of fragrance, contemplating Nature. I en- 
treat you, by our common brotherhood, not to interpose between 
me and a subject so sublime, the absurd figure of an angry baker ! ' 
But he did," said Mr. Skimpole, raising his laughing eyebrows in 
playful astonishment ; "he did interpose that ridiculous figure, and 
he does, and he will again. And therefore I am very glad to get 
out of his way, and to go home with my friend Jarndyce." 

It seemed to escape his consideration that Mrs. Skimpole and 
the daughters remained behind to encounter the baker ; but this 



BLEAK HOUSE. 557 

was so old a story to all of them that it had become a matter of 
course. He took leave of his family with a tenderness as airy and 
graceful as any other aspect in which he showed himself, and 
rode away with us in perfect harmony of mind. We had an op- 
portunity of seeing through some open doors, as we went down- 
stairs, that his own apartment was a palace to the rest of the 
house. 

I could have no anticipation, and I had none, that something 
very startling to me at the moment, and ever memorable to me in 
what ensued from it, was to happen before this day was out. Our 
guest was in such spirits on the way home, that I could do nothing 
but listen to him and wonder at him ; nor was I alone in this, for 
Ada yielded to the same fascination. As to my Guardian, the wind, 
which had threatened to become fixed in the east when we left 
Somers Town, veered completely round, before we were a couple of 
miles from it. 

Whether of questionable childishness or not, in any other mat- 
ters, Mr. Skimpole had a child's enjoyment of change and bright 
weather. In no way wearied by his sallies on the road, he was in 
the drawing-room before any of us ; and I heard him at the piano 
while I was yet looking after my housekeeping, singing refrains of 
barcaroles and drinking songs Italian and German by the score. 

We were all assembled shortly before dinner, and he was stiU at 
the piano idly picking out in his luxurious way little strains of 
music, and talking between whiles of finishing some sketches of the 
ruined old Verulam wall, to-morrow, which he had begun a year or 
two ago and had got tired of; when a card was brought in, and my 
Guardian read aloud in a surprised voice : 

" Sir Leicester Dedlock ! " 

The visitor was in the room while it was yet turning round with 
me, and before I had the power to stir. If I had had it, I should 
have hurried away. I had not even the presence of mind, in my 
giddiness, to retire to Ada in the window, or to see the window, or 
to know where it was. I heard my name, and found that my 
Guardian was presenting me, before I could move to a chair. 

" Pray be seated, Sir Leicester." 

"Mr. Jarndyce," said Sir Leicester in reply, as he bowed and 
seated himself, " I do myself the honour of calling here — " 

"You do me the honour. Sir Leicester." 

" Thank you — of calling here on my road from Lincolnshire, to 
express my regret that any cause of complaint, however strong, 
that I may have against a gentleman who — who is known to you 
and has been your host, and to whom therefore I will make no 
farther reference, should have prevented you, still more ladies under 



558 BLEAK HOUSE. 

your escort and charge, from seeing whatever Uttle there may be to 
gratify a polite and refined taste, at my house, Chesney Wold." 

"You are exceedingly obliging. Sir Leicester, and on behalf of 
those ladies (who are present) and for myself, I thank you very 
much." 

"It is possible, Mr. Jarndyce, that the gentleman to whom, for 
the reasons I have mentioned I refrain from making further allu- 
sion — it is possible, Mr. Jarndyce, that that gentleman may have 
done me the honour so far to misapprehend my character, as to 
induce you to believe that you would not have been received by my 
local establishment in Lincolnshire with that urbanity, that cour- 
tesy, which its members are instructed to show to all ladies and 
gentlemen who present themselves at that house. I merely beg to 
observe, sir, that the fact is the reverse." 

My Gruardian delicately dismissed this remark without making 
any verbal answer. 

" It has given me pain, Mr. Jarndyce," Sir Leicester weightily 
proceeded. " I assure you, sir, it has given — Me — pain — to 
learn from the housekeeper at Chesney Wold, that a gentleman 
who was in your company in that part of the county, and who 
would appear to possess a cultivated taste for the Fine Arts, was 
likewise deterred, by some such cause, from examining the family 
pictures with that leisure, that attention, that care, which he might 
have desired to bestow upon them, and which some of them might 
possibly have repaid." Here he produced a card, and read, with 
much gravity and a little trouble, through his eye-glass, " Mr. 
Hirrokl, — - Herald — Harold — Skampling — Skumpling — I beg 
your pardon, — Skimpole." 

"This is Mr. Harold Skimpole," said my Guardian, evidently 
surprised. 

"Oh!" exclaimed Sir Leicester, "I am happy to meet Mr. 
Skimpole, and to have the opportunity of tendering my personal 
regrets. I hope, sir, that when you again find yourself in my 
part of the county, you will be under no similar sense of restraint." 

" You are very obliging, Sir Leicester Dedlock. So encouraged, 
I shall certainly give myself the pleasure and advantage of another 
visit to your beautiful house. The owners of such places as 
Chesney Wold," said Mr. Skimpole with his usual happy and easy 
air, " are public benefixctors. They are good enough to maintain 
a number of delightfid objects for the admiration and pleasure of 
us poor men ; and not to reap all the admiration and pleasure 
that they yield, is to be ungrateful to our benefactors." 

Sir Leicester seemed to approve of this sentiment highly. " An 
artist, sir?" 



660 BLEAK HOUSE. 

"No," returned Mr. Skimpole. "A perfectly idle man. A 
mere amateur." 

Sir Leicester seemed to approve of this even more. He hoped 
he might have the good fortune to be at Chesney Wold when Mr. 
Skimpole next came down into Lincolnshire. Mr. Skimpole pro- 
fessed himself much flattered and honoured. 

"Mr. Skimpole mentioned," pursued Sir Leicester, addressing 
himself again to my Guardian; "mentioned to the housekeeper, 
who, as he may have observed, is an old and attached retainer of 
the family — " 

("That is, when I walked through the house the other day, on 
the occasion of my going do^vn to visit Miss Summerson and Miss 
Clare," Mr. Skimpole airily explained to us.) 

" That the friend with whom he had formerly been staying 
there, was Mr. Jarndyce." Sir Leicester bowed to the bearer of 
that name. " And hence I became aware of the circumstance for 
which I have professed my i-egret. That this should have occurred 
to any gentleman, Mr. Jarndyce, but especially a gentleman for- 
merly known to Lady Dedlock, and indeed claiming some distant 
connection with her, and for whom (as I learn from my Lady her- 
self) she entertains a high respect, does, I assure you, give — Me 
— pain." 

"Pray say no more about it, Sir Leicester," returned my Guar- 
dian. "I am very sensible, as I am sure we all are, of your 
consideration. Indeed the mistake was mine, and I ought to 
apologise for it." 

I had not once looked up. I had not seen the visitor, and had 
not even appeared to myself to hear the conversation. It surprises 
me to find that I can recall it, for it seemed to make no impres- 
sion on me as it passed. I heard them speaking, but my mind 
was so confused, and my instinctive avoidance of this gentleman 
made his presence so distressing to me, that I thought I under- 
stood nothing, through the rushing in my head and the beating of 
my heart. 

"I mentioned the subject to Lady Dedlock," said Sir Leicester, 
rising, " and my Lady informed me that she had had the pleasure 
of exchanging a few words with Mr. Jarndyce and his wards, on 
the occasion of an accidental meeting during their sojourn in the 
vicinity. Permit me, Mr. Jarndyce, to repeat to yourself, and to 
these ladies, the assurance I have already tendered to Mr. Skim- 
pole. Circumstances undoubtedly prevent my saying that it would 
afford me any gratification to hear that Mr. Boythorn had favoured 
my house with his presence ; but those circumstances are confined 
to that gentleman himself, and do not extend beyond him." 



BLEAK HOUSE. 661 

"You know my old opinion of him," said Mr. Skimpole, lightly- 
appealing to us. " An amiable bull, Avho is determined to make 
every colour scarlet ! " 

Sir Leicester Dedlock coughed, as if he could not possibly hear 
another word in reference to such an individual ; and took his 
leave with gi'eat ceremony and politeness. I got to my own room 
with all possible speed, and remained there until I had recovered 
my self-command. It had been very much disturbed ; but I was 
thankful to find, when I went down-stairs again, that they only 
rallied me for having been shy and mute before the great Lincoln- 
shire baronet. 

By that time I had made up my mind that the period was 
come when I must tell my Guardian what I knew. The possibil- 
ity of my being brought into contact witli my mother, of my being 
taken to her house, — even of Mr. Skimpole's, however distantly 
associated with me, receiving kindnesses and obligations from her 
husband, — was so painful, that I felt I could no longer guide my- 
self without his assistance. 

When we had retired for the night, and Ada and I had had our 
usual talk in our pretty room, I went out at my door again, and 
sought my Guardian among his books. I knew he always read at 
that hour ; and as I drew near, I saw the light shining out into 
the passage from his reading-lamp. 

"May I come in. Guardian?" 

"Surely, little woman. What's the matter?" 

" Nothing is the matter. I thought I would like to take this 
quiet time of saying a word to you about myself." 

He put a chair for me, shut his book, and put it by, and turned 
his kind attentive face towards me. I could not help observing 
that it wore that curious expression I had observed in it once be- 
fore — on that night when he had said that he was in no trouble 
which I could readily understand. 

" What concerns you, my dear Esther," said he, " concerns us all. 
You cannot be more ready to speak than I am to hear." 

" I know that. Guardian. But I have such need of your advice 
and support. ! you don't know how much need I have to- 
night." 

He looked unprepared for my being so earnest, and even a 
little alarmed. 

"Or how anxious I have been to speak to you," said I, "ever 
since the visitor was here to-day." 

" The visitor, my dear ! Sir Leicester Dedlock ? " 

"Yes." 

He folded his arms, and sat looking at me with an air of the 

2o 



562 BLEAK HOUSE. 

profoundest astonishment, awaiting what I should say next. I 
did not know how to prepare him. 

"Why, Esther," said he, breaking into a smile, "our visitor and 
you are the two last persons on earth I should have thought of 
connecting together ! " 

" yes, Guardian, I know it. And I too, but a little whUe 
ago." 

The smile passed from his face, and he became graver than 
before. He crossed to the door to see that it was shut (but I 
had seen to that), and resumed his seat before me. 

"Guardian," said I, "do you remember, when we were over- 
taken by the thunderstorm. Lady Dedlock's speaking to you of her 
sister ? " 

" Of course. Of course I do." 

" And reminding you that she and her sister had differed ; had 
' gone their several ways ' ? " 

" Of course." 

" Why did they separate. Guardian ? " ; 

His face quite altered as he looked at me. " My child, what 
questions are these ! I never knew. No one but themselves ever 
did know, I believe. Who could tell what the secrets of those two 
handsome and proud women were ! You have seen Lady Dedlock. 
If you had ever seen her sister, you would know her to have been 
as resolute and haughty as she." 

" Guardian, I have seen her many and many a time ! " 

" Seen her ? " 

He paused a little, biting his lip. " Then, Esther, when you 
spoke to me long ago of Boythorn, and when I told you that he 
was all but married once, and that the lady did not die, but died 
to him, and that that time had had its influence on his later life — 
did you know it all, and know who the lady was 1 " 

"No, Guardian," I returned, fearful of the light that dimly 
broke upon me. " Nor do I know yet." 

" Lady Dedlock's sister." 

"And why," I could scarcely ask him, "why. Guardian, pray 
tell me why were the^ parted?" 

" It was her act, and she kept its motives in her inflexible heart. 
He afterwards did conjecture (but it was mere conjecture), that 
some injury which her haughty spirit had received in her cause of 
quarrel with her sister, had wounded her beyond all reason ; but 
she wrote him that from the date of that letter she died to him — 
as in literal truth she did — and that the resolution was exacted 
from her by her knowledge of his proud temper and his strained 
sense of honour, which were both her nature too. In considerar 



BLEAK HOUSE. 563 

tion for those master points in him, and even in consideration for 
them in herself, she made the sacrifice, she said, and would live in 
it and die in it. She did both, I fear : certainly he never saw her, 
never heard of her from that hour. Nor did any one." 

" Guardian, what have I done ! " I cried, giving way to my 
grief; "what sorrow have I innocently caused! " 

"You caused, Esther?" 

"Yes, Guardian. Innocently, but most surely. That secluded 
sister is my first remembrance." 

" No, no ! " he cried, starting. 

" Yes, Guardian, yes ! And her sister is my mother ! " 

T would have told him all my mother's letter, but he would not 
hear it then. He spoke so tenderly and wisely to me, and he put 
so plainly before me all I had myself imperfectly thought and hoped 
in my better state of mind, that, penetrated as I had been with 
fervent gratitude towards him through so many years, I believed 
I had never loved him so dearly, never thanked him in my heart 
so fully, as I did that night. And when he had taken me to my 
room and kissed me at the door, and when at last I lay down to 
sleep, my thought was how could I ever be busy enough, how 
could I ever be good enough, how in my little way could I ever 
hope to be forgetful enough of myself, devoted enough to him, and 
useful enough to others, to show him how I blessed and honoured 
him. 



CHAPTER XLIV. 

THE LETTER AND THE ANSWER. 

My Guardian called me into his room next morning, and then 
I told him what had been left untold on the previous night. 
There was nothing to be done, he said, but to keep the secret, and 
to avoid another such encounter as that of yesterday. He under- 
stood my feeling, and entirely shared it. He charged himself even 
with restraining Mr. Skimpole from improving his opportunity. 
One person whom he need not name to me, it was not now possi- 
ble for him to advise or help. He wished it were ; but no such 
thing could be. If her mistrust of the lawyer whom she had men- 
tioned were well-founded, which he scarcely doubted, he dreaded 
discovery. He knew something of him, both by sight and by rep- 
utation, and it was certain that he was a dangerous man. What- 
ever happened, he repeatedly impressed upon me with anxious 
affection and kindness, I was as innocent of as himself; and as 
unable to influence. 



564 BLEAK HOUSE. 

"Nor do I understand," said he, "that any doubts tend towards 
you, my dear. Much suspicion may exist without that connection." 

"With the lawyer," I returned. " But two other persons have 
come into my mind since I have been anxious." Then I told him 
all about Mr. Guppy, who I feared might have had his vague sur- 
mises when I little understood his meaning, but in whose silence 
after our last interview I expressed perfect confidence. 

" Well," said my Guardian. " Then we may dismiss him for the 
present. Who is the other 1 " 

I called to his recollection the French maid, and the eager offer 
of herself she had made to me. 

" Ha ! " he returned thoughtfully, "vthat is a more alarming 
person than the clerk. But after all, my dear, it was but seeking 
for a new service. She had seen you and Ada a little while before, 
and it was natural that you should come into her head. She 
merely proposed herself for your maid, you know. She did nothing 
more." 

" Her manner was strange," said I. ! 

" Yes, and her manner was strange when she took her shoes off, 
and showed that cool relish for a walk that might have ended in 
her death-bed," said my Guardian. "It would be useless self- 
distress and torment to reckon up such chances and possibilities. 
There are very few harmless circumstances that would not seem 
full of perilous meaning, so considered. Be hopeful, little woman. 
You can be nothing better than yourself; be that, through this 
knowledge, as you were before you had it. It is the best you can 
do, for everybody's sake. I sharing the secret with you " 

"And lightening it, Guardian, so much," said I. 

" — Will be attentive to what passes in that family, so far as I 
can observe it from my distance. And if the time should come 
when I can stretch out a hand to render the least service to one 
whom it is better not to name even here, I will not fail to do it 
for her dear daughter's sake." 

I thanked him with my whole heart. What could I ever do but 
thank him ! I was going out at the door, when he asked me to 
stay a moment. Quickly turning round, I saw that same expres- 
sion on his face again; and all at once, I don't know how, it 
flashed upon me as a new and far off possibility that I understood it. 

"My dear Esther," said my Guardian, "I have long had some- 
thing in my thoughts that I have wished to say to you." 

" Indeed r' 

" I have had some difficulty in approaching it, and I still have. 
I should wish it to be so deliberately said, and so deliberately con- 
sidered. Would you object to my -writing it ? " 



BLEAK HOUSE, 665 

" Dear Guardian, how could I object to your writing anything 
for me to read 1 " 

" Then see, my love," said he, with his cheery smile ; " am I at 
this moment quite as plain and easy — ^ do I seem as open, as hon- 
est and old-fashioned, as I am at any time ? " 

I answered, in all earnestness, " Quite." With the strictest truth, 
for his momentary hesitation was gone (it had not lasted a minute), 
and his fine, sensible, cordial, sterling manner was restored. 

"Do I look as if I suppressed anything, meant anything but 
what I said, had any reservation at all, no matter what ? " said he, 
with his bright clear eyes on mine. 

I answered, most assuredly he did not. 

" Can you fully trust me, and thoroughly rely on what I pro- 
fess, Esther ? " 

"Most thoroughly," said I with my whole heart. 

"My dear girl," returned my Guardian, "give me your hand." 

He took it in his, holding me lightly with his arm, and, looking 
down into my face with the same genuine freshness and faithful- 
ness of manner — the old protecting manner which had made that 
house my home in a moment — said, " You have wrought changes 
in me, little woman, since the winter day in the stage coach. 
First and last you have done me a world of good, since that time." 

" Ah, Guardian, what have you done for me since that time ! " 

"But," said he, "that is not to be remembered now." 

"It never can be forgotten." 

"Yes, Esther," said he, with a gentle seriousness, "it is to be 
forgotten now; to be forgotten for a while. You are only to 
remember now, that nothing can change me as you know me. 
Can you feel quite assured of that, my dear ? " 

"I can, and I do," I said. 

" That's much," he answered. " That's everything. But I must 
not take that, at a word. I will not write this something in my 
thoughts, until you have quite resolved within yourself that noth- 
ing can change me as you know me. If you doubt that in the 
least degree I will never write it. If you are sure of that, on 
good consideration, send Charley to me this night week — ' for the 
letter.' But if you are not quite certain, never send. Mind, I 
trust to your truth, in this thing as in everything. If you are not 
quite certain on that one point, never send ! " 

"Guardian," said I, " I am already certain. I can no more be 
changed in that conviction, than you can be changed towards me. 
I shall send Charley for the letter." 

He shook my hand and said no more. Nor was any more said 
in reference to this conversation, either by him or me, through 



566 BLEAK HOUSE. 

the whole week. When the appointed night came, I said to 
Charley as soon as I was alone, "Go and knock at Mr. Jarndyce's 
door, Charley, and say you have come from me — ' for the letter.' " 
Charley went up the stairs, and down the stairs, and along the 
passages — the zig-zag way about the old-fashioned house seemed 
very long in my listening ears that night — and so came back, 
along the passages, and down the stairs, and up the stairs, and 
brought the letter. " Lay it on the table, Charley," said I. So 
Charley laid it on the table and went to bed, and I sat looking at 
it without taking it up, thinking of many things. 

I began with my overshadowed childhood, and passed through 
those timid days to the heavy time when my aimt lay dead, with 
her resolute face so cold and set ; and when I was more solitary 
with Mrs. Rachael, than if I had had no one in the world to speak 
to or to look at. I passed to the altered days when I was so blest 
as to find friends in all around me, and to be beloved. I came to 
the time when I first saw my dear girl, and was received into that 
sisterly aff'ection which was the grace and beauty of my life. I 
recalled the first bright gleam of welcome which had shone out 
of those very windows upon our expectant faces on that cold 
bright night, and which had never paled. I lived my happy life 
there over again, I went through my illness and recovery, T 
thought of myself so altered and of those around me so unchanged ; 
and all this happiness shone like a light, from one central figure, 
represented before me by the letter on the table. 

I opened it and read it. It was so impressive in its love for 
me, and in the unselfish caution it gave me, and the consideration 
it showed for me in every word, that my eyes were too often 
blinded to read much at a time. But I read it through three 
times, before I laid it down. I had thought beforehand that I 
knew its purport, and I did. It asked me would I be the mistress 
of Bleak House. 

It was not a love letter though it expressed so much love, but 
was written just as he would at any time have spoken to me. I 
saw his face, and heard his voice, and felt the influence of his kind 
protecting manner, in every line. It addressed me as if our places 
were reversed : as if all the good deeds had been mine, and all the 
feelings they had awakened, his. It dwelt on my being young, 
and he past the prime of life ; on his having attained a ripe age, 
while I was a child ; on his writing to me with a silvered head, 
and knowing all this so well as to set it in full before me for 
mature deliberation. It told me that I would gain nothing by 
such a marriage, and lose nothing by rejecting it ; for no new 
relation could enhance the tenderness in which he held me, and 



i 



BLEAK HOUSE. 567 

whatever my decision was, he was certain it would be right. But 
he had considered this step anew, since our late confidence, and 
had decided on taking it ; if it only served to show me, through 
one poor instance, that the whole world would readily unite to 
falsify the stern prediction of my childhood. I was the last to 
know what happiness I could bestow upon him, but of that he 
said no more ; for I was always to remember that I owed him 
nothing, and that he was my debtor, and for very much. He had 
often thought of our future ; and, foreseeing that the time must 
come, and fearing that it might come soon, when Ada (now very 
nearly of age) would leave us, and when our present mode of life 
must be broken up, had become accustomed to reflect on this 
proposal. Thus he made it. If I felt that I could ever give him 
the best right he could have to be my protector, and if I felt that 
I could happily and justly become the dear companion of his 
remaining life, superior to all lighter chances and changes than 
Death, even then he could not have me bind myself irrevocably, 
while this letter was yet so new to me ; but, even then, I must 
have ample time for reconsideration. In that case, or in the 
opposite case, let him be unchanged in his old relation, in his old 
manner, in the old name by which I called him. And as to his 
bright Dame Durden and little housekeeper, she would ever be 
the same, he knew. 

This was the substance of the letter ; written throughout with 
a justice and a dignity, as if he were indeed my responsible Guar- 
dian, impartially representing the proposal of a friend against whom 
in his integrity he stated the full case. 

But he did not hint to me, that when I had been better-looking, 
he had had this same proceeding in his thoughts, and had refrained 
from it. That when my old face was gone from me, and I had no 
attractions, he could love me just as well as in my fairer days. That 
the discovery of my birth gave him no shock. That his generosity 
rose above my disfigurement, and my inheritance of shame. That 
the more I stood in need of such fidelity, the more firmly I might 
trust in him to the last. 

But / knew it, I knew it well now. It came upon me as the 
close of the benignant history I had been pursuing, and I felt that 
I had but one thing to do. To devote my life to his happiness was 
to thank him poorly, and what had I wished for the other night 
but some new means of thanking him 1 

Still I cried very much; not only in the fulness of my heart 
after reading the letter, not only in the strangeness of the prospect 
— for it was strange though I had expected the contents — but as 
if something for which there was no name or distinct idea were in- 



668 BLEAK HOUSE. 

definitely lost to me. I was very happy, verj' thankful, very hope- 
ful ; but I cried very much. 

By-and-bye I went to my old glass. My eyes were red and swol- 
len, and I said, "0 Esther, Esther, can that be you !" I am afraid 
the face in the glass was going to cry again at this reproach, but I 
held up my finger at it, and it stopped. 

" That is more like the composed look you comforted me with, 
my dear, when you showed me such a change ! " said I, beginning 
to let down my hair. "When you are mistress of Bleak House, 
you are to be as cheerful as a bird. In fact, you are always to be 
cheerful ; so let us begin for once and for all." 

I went on with my hair now, quite comfortably. I sobbed a 
little still, but that was because I had been crying ; not because I 
was crying then. 

"And so, Esther, my dear, you are happy for life. Happy with 
your best friends, happy in your old home, happy in the power of 
doing a great deal of good, and happy in the undeserved love of the 
best of men." 

I thought, all at once, if my Guardian had married some one else, 
how should I have felt, and what should I have done ! That would 
have been a change indeed. It presented my life in such a new • 
and blank form, that I rang my housekeeping keys and gave them 
a kiss before I laid them down in their basket again. 

Then I went on to think, as I dressed my hair before the glass, 
how often had I considered within myself that the deep traces of 
my illness, and the circumstances of my birth, were only new reasons 
why I should be busy, busy, busy — useful, amiable, serviceable, 
in all honest unpretending ways. This was a good time, to be sure, 
to sit down morbidly and cry ! As to its seeming at all strange to 
me at first (if that were any excuse for crying, which it was not) 
that I was one day to be the mistress of Bleak House, why should 
it seem strange ? Other people had thought of such things, if I had 
not. " Don't you remember, my plain dear," I asked myself, look- , 
ing at the glass, "what Mrs. Woodcourt said before those scars '. 
were there, about your marrying " 

Perhaps the name brought them to my remembrance. The dried 
remains of the fiowers. It would be better not to keep them now. ', 
They had only been preserved in memory of something wholly past ) 
and gone, but it would be better not to keep them now. 

They were in a book, and it happened to be in the next room — 
our sitting-room, dividing Ada's chamber from mine. I took a 
candle, and went softly in to fetch it from its shelf. After I had 
it in my hand, I saw my beautiful darling, through the open door, 
lying asleep, and I stole in to kiss her. 



BLEAK HOUSE. 569 

It was weak in me, I know, and I could have no reason for cry- 
ing ; but I dropped a tear upon her dear face, and another, and an- 
other. Weaker than that, I took the withered flowers out, and 
put them for a moment to her Hps. I thought about her love for 
Richard ; though, indeed, the flowers had nothing to do with that. 
Then I took them into my own room, and burned them at the 
candle, and they were dust in an in.stant. 

On entering the breakfast-room next morning, I found my Guar- 
dian just as usual ; quite as frank, as open, and free. There being 
not the least constraint in his manner, there was none (or I think 
there was none) in mine. I was with him several times in the 
course of the morning, in and out, when there was no one there ; 
and I thought it not unlikely that he might speak to me about the 
letter ; but he did not say a word. 

So, on the next morning, and the next, and for at least a week ; 
over which time Mr. Skimpole prolonged his stay. I expected, 
every day, that my Guardian might speak to me about the letter ; 
but he never did. 

I thought then, growing uneasy, that I ought to write an answer. 
I tried over and over again in my own room at night, but I could 
not write an answer that at all began like a good answer ; so I 
thought each night I would wait one more day. And I waited 
seven more days, and he never said a word. 

At last Mr. Skimpole having departed, we three were one after- 
noon going out for a ride ; and I being dressed before Ada, and 
going down, came upon my Guardian, with his back towards me, 
standing at the drawing-room window looking out. 

He turned on my coming in, and said, smiling, " Aye, it's you, 
little woman, is it 1 " and looked out again. 

I had made up my mind to speak to him now. In short, I had 
come down on purpose. "Guardian," I said, rather hesitating and 
trembling, " when would you like to have the answer to the letter 
Charley came for ? " 

"When it's ready, my dear," he replied. 

"I think it is ready," said I. 

" Is Charley to bring it ? " he asked pleasantly. 

" No. I have brought it myself. Guardian," I returned. 

I put my two arms around his neck and kissed him; and he said 
was this the mistress of Bleak House ; and I said yes ; and it made 
no difference presently, and we all went out together, and I said 
nothing to my precious pet about it. 



570 BLEAK HOUSE. 

CHAPTER XLV. 

IN TRUST. 

One morning when I had done jingling about with my basket of 
keys, as my beauty and I were walking round and round the garden 
I happened to turn my eyes towards the house, and saw a long thin 
shadow going in which looked like Mr. Vholes. Ada had been 
telling me only that morning, of her hopes that Richard might 
exhaust his ardour in the Chancery suit by being so very earnest in 
it ; and therefore, not to damp my dear girl's spirits, I said nothing 
about Mr. Vholes's shadow. 

Presently came Charley, lightly winding among the bushes, and 
tripping along the paths, as rosy and pretty as one of Flora's 
attendants instead of my maid, saying, "0 if you please, miss, 
would you step and speak to Mr. Jarndyce ! " 

It was one of Charley's peculiarities, that whenever she was 
charged with a message she always began to deliver it as soon as 
she beheld, at any distance, the person for whom it was intended. 
Therefore I saw Charley, asking me in her usual form of words, to 
" step and speak " to Mr. Jarndyce, long before I heard her. And 
when I did hear her, she had said it so often that she was out 
of breath. 

I told Ada I would make haste back, and inquired of Charley, as 
we went in, whether there was not a gentleman with Mr. Jarndyce ? 
To which Charley, whose grammar, I confess to my shame, never 
did any credit to my educational powers, replied, "Yes, miss. 
Him as come down in the country with Mr. Richard." 

A more complete contrast than my Guardian and Mr. Vholes, I 
suppose there could not be. I found them looking at one another 
across a table ; the one so open, and the other so close ; the one so 
broad and upright, and the other so narrow and stooping; the 
one giving out what he had to say in such a rich ringing voice, and 
the other keeping it in in such a cold-blooded, gasping, fish-like 
manner ; that I thought I never had seen two people so unmatched. 

" You know Mr. Vholes, my dear," said my Guardian. Not with 
the greatest urbanity, I must say. 

Mr. Vholes rose, gloved and buttoned up as usual, and seated 
himself again, just as he had seated himself beside Richard in the 
gig. Not having Richard to look at, he looked straight before 
him. 

"Mr. Vholes," said my Guardian, eyeing his black figure, as if 
he were a bird of ill omen, "has brought an ugly report of our 
most unfortunate Rick." Laying a marked emphasis on most 



BLEAK HOUSE. 571 

unfortunate, as if the words were rather descriptive of his con- 
nection with Mr. Vholes. 

I sat down between them ; Mr. Vholes remained immovable, 
except that he secretly picked at one of the red pimples on his 
yellow face with his black glove. 

"And as Rick and you are happily good friends, I should like to 
know," said my Guardian, " what you think, my dear. Would you 
be so good as to — as to speak up, Mr. Vholes 1 " 

Doing anything but that, Mr. Vholes observed : 

"I have been saying that I have reason to know. Miss Summerson, 
as Mr. C's professional adviser, that Mr. C's circumstances are at 
the present moment in an embarrassed state. Not so much in point 
of amount, as owing to the peculiar and pressing nature of liabili- 
ties Mr. C has incurred, and the means he has of liquidating or 
meeting the same. I have staved off many little matters for 
Mr. C ; but there is a limit to staving off, and we have reached it. 
I have made some advances out of pocket to accommodate these 
unpleasantnesses, but I necessarily look to being repaid, for I do not 
pretend to be a man of capital, and I have a father to support in 
the Vale of Taunton, besides striving to realise some httle indepen- 
dence for three dear girls at home. My apprehension is, Mr. C's 
circumstances being such, lest it should end in his obtaining leave 
to part with his commission ; which at all events is desirable to be 
made known to his connections." 

Mr. Vholes, who had looked at me while speaking, here merged 
into the silence he could hardly be said to have broken, so stifled 
was his tone ; and looked before him again. 

" Imagine the poor fellow without even his present resource," 
said my Guardian to me. "Yet what can I do? You know him, 
Esther. He would never accept of help from me, now. To offer 
it, or hint at it, would be to drive him to an extremity, if nothing 
else did." 

Mr. Vholes hereupon addressed me again. 

"What Mr. Jarndyce remarks, miss, is no doubt the case, and is 
the difficulty. I do not see that anything is to be done. I do not 
say that anything is to be done. Far from it. I merely come 
down here under the seal of confidence and mention it, in order 
that everything may be openly carried on, and that it may not be 
said afterwards that everything was not openly carried on. My 
wish is that everything should be openly carried on. I desire to 
leave a good name behind me. If I consulted merely my own in- 
terests with Mr. C, I should not be here. So insurmountable, as 
you must well know, would be his objections. This is not a pro- 
fessional attendance. This can be charged to nobody. I have no 



572 BLEAK HOUSE. 

interest in it, except as a member of society and a father — and a 
son," said Mr. Vholes, who had nearly forgotten that point. 

It appeared to us that Mr. Vholes said neither more nor less than 
the truth, in intimating that he sought to divide the responsibility, 
such as it was, of knowing Richard's situation. I could only sug- 
gest that I should go down to Deal, where Richard was then sta- 
tioned, and see him, and try if it were possible to avert the worst. 
Without consulting Mr. Vholes on this point, I took my Guardian 
aside to propose it, while Mr. Vholes gauntly stalked to the fire, 
and warmed his funeral gloves. 

The fatigue of the journey formed an immediate objection on my 
Guardian's part ; but as I saw he had no other, and as I was only 
too happy to go, I got his consent. We had then merely to dis- i 
pose of Mr. Vholes. 

" Well, sir," said Mr. Jarndyce, " Miss Summerson will communi- 
cate with Mr. Carstone, and we can only hope that his position may 
be yet retrievable. You will allow me to order you lunch after 
your journey, sir." 

" I thank you, Mr. Jarndyce," said Mr. Vholes, putting out his 
long black sleeve, to check the ringing of the bell, " not any. I 
thank you, no, not a morsel. My digestion is much impaired, and 
I am but a poor knife and fork at any time. If I was to partake 
of solid food at this period of the day, I don't know what the con- 
sequences might be. Everything having been openly carried on, sir, 
I will now with your permission take my leave." 

" And I would that you could take your leave, and we could all 
take our leave, Mr. Vholes," returned my Guardian, bitterly, "of a 
Cause you know of" 

Mr. Vholes, whose black dye was so deep from head to foot that 
it had quite steamed before the fire, diffusing a very unpleasant 
perfume, made a short one-sided inclination of his head from the 
neck, and slowly shook it. 

" We whose ambition it is to be looked upon in the light of re- 
spectable practitioners, sir, can but put our shoulders to the wheel. 
We do it, sir. At least, I do it myself; and I wish to think well 
of my professional brethren, one and aU. You are sensible of an 
obligation not to refer to me, miss, in communicating with Mr. C ? " 

I said I would be careful not to do it. 

" Just so, miss. Good morning. Mr. Jarndyce, good morning, 
sir." Mr. Vholes put his dead glove, which scarcely seemed to 
have any hand in it, on my fingers, and then on my Guardian's fin- 
gers, and took his long thin shadow away. I thought of it on the 
outside of the coach, passing over aU the sunny landscape between 
us and London, chilling the seed in the ground as it glided along. 



BLEAK HOUSE. 673 

Of course it became necessary to tell Ada where I was going, 
and why I was going ; and of course she was anxious and distressed. 
But she was too true to Richard to say anything but words of 
pity and words of excuse ; and in a more loving siDirit still — my 
dear, devoted girl ! — she wrote him a long letter, of which I took 
charge. 

Charley was to be my travelling companion, though I am sure I 
wanted none, and would willingly have left her at home. We all 
went to London that afternoon, and finding two places in the mail, 
secured them. At our usual bed-time, Charley and I were rolling 
away seaward, with the Kentish letters. 

It was a night's journey in those coach times ; but we had the 
mail to ourselves, and did not find the night very tedious. It 
passed with me as I suppose it would with most people under such 
circumstances. At one while, my journey looked hopeful, and at 
another hopeless. Now I thought that I should do some good, 
and now I wondered how I could ever have supposed so. Now it 
seemed one of the most reasonable things in the world that I 
should have come, and now one of the most unreasonable. In 
what state I should find Richard, what I should say to him, and 
what he would say to me, occupied my mind by turns with these 
two states of feeling ; and the wheels seemed to play one tune (to 
which the burden of my Guardian's letter set itself) over and over 
again all night. 

At last we came into the narrow streets of Deal : and very gloomy 
they were, upon a raw misty morning. The long flat beach, with 
its little irregular houses, wooden and brick, and its litter of cap- 
stans, and great boats, and sheds, and bare upright poles with 
tackle and blocks, and loose gravelly waste places overgrown with 
grass and weeds, wore as dull an appearance as any place I ever 
saw. The sea was heaving under a thick white fog ; and nothing 
else was moving but a few early ropemakers, who, with the yarn 
twisted round their bodies, looked as if, tired of their present state 
of existence, they were spinning themselves into cordage. 

But when we got into a warm room in an excellent hotel, and 
sat down, comfortably washed and dressed, to an early breakfast 
(for it was too late to think of going to bed). Deal began to look 
more cheerful. Our little room was like a ship's cabin, and that 
delighted Charley very much. Then the fog began to rise like a 
curtain ; and numbers of ships, that we had had no idea were near, 
appeared. I don't know how many sail the waiter told us were 
then lying in the Downs. Some of these vessels were of grand 
size : one was a large Indiaman, Just come home : and when the 
sun shoue through the clouds, making silvery pools in the dark 



574 BLEAK HOUSE. 

sea, the way in which these ships brightened, and shadowed, and 
changed, amid a bustle of boats putting off from the shore to them 
and from them to the shore, and a general life and motion in them- 
selves and everything around them, was most beautiful. 

The large Indiaman was our great attraction, because she had 
come into the Downs in the night. She was surrounded by 
boats ; and we said how glad the people on board of her must be 
to come ashore. Charley was curious, too, about the voyage, and 
about the heat in India, and the serpents and the tigers ; and as 
she picked up such information much faster than grammar, I told 
her what I knew on those points. I told her, too, how people in 
such voyages were sometimes wrecked and cast on rocks, where 
they were saved by the intrepidity and humanity of one man. And 
Charley asking how that could be, I told her how we knew at 
home of such a case. 

I had thought of sending Richard a note, saying I was there, 
but it seemed so much better to go to him without preparation. 
As he lived in barracks I was a little doubtful whether this was 
feasible, but we went out to reconnoitre. Peeping in at the gate 
^f the barrack yard, we found everything very quiet at that time 
in the morning ; and I asked a Serjeant standing on the guard- 
house-steps, where he lived. He sent a man before to show me, 
who went up some bare stairs, and knocked with his knuckles at 
a door, and left us. 

" Now then ! " cried Richard, from within. So I left Charley 
in the little passage, and going on to the half-open door, said, " Can 
I come in, Richard? It's only Dame Durden." 

He was writing at a table, with a great confusion of clothes, tin 
cases, books, boots, brushes, and portmanteaus, strewn all about 
the floor. He was only half-dressed — in plain clothes, I observed, 
not in uniform — -and his hair was unbrushed, and he looked as 
wild as his room. All this I saw after he had heartily welcomed 
me, and I was seated near him, for he started upon hearing my 
voice and caught me in his arms in a moment. Dear Richard ! 
He was ever the same to me. Down to — ah, poor, poor fellow ! 
— to the end, he never received me but with something of his 
old merry boyish manner. 

" Good Heaven, my dear little woman," said he, " how do you 
come here ! Who could have thought of seeing you ! Nothing the 
matter ? Ada is well 1 " 

" Quite well. Lovelier than ever, Richard ! " 

" Ah ! " he said, leaning back in his chair. " My poor cousin ! 
I was writing to you, Esther." 

So worn and haggard as he looked, even in the fulness of his 



BLEAK HOUSE. 676 

handsome youth, leaning back in his chair, and crushing the closely- 
written sheet of paper in his hand ! 

" Have you been at the trouble of writing all that, and am I not 
to read it after all ? " I asked. 

" Oh my dear," he returned, with a hopeless gesture. " You 
may read it in the whole room. It is all over here." 

I mildly entreated him not to be despondent. I told him that 
I had heard by chance of his being in difficulty, and had come to 
consult with him what could best be done. 

" Like you, Esther, but useless, and so not like you ! " said he 
with a melancholy smile. " I am away on leave this day — should 
have been gone in another hour — and that is to smooth it over, 
for my selling out. Well ! Let bygones be bygones. So this 
calling follows the rest. I only want to have been in the church, 
to have made the round of all the professions." 

"Richard," I urged, "it is not so hopeless as that?" 

"Esther," he returned, "it is indeed. I am just so near disgrace 
as that those who are put in authority over me (as the catechism 
goes) would far rather be without me than with me. And they 
are right. Apart from debts and duns, and all such drawbacks, I 
am not fit even for this employment. I have no care, no mind, no 
heart, no soul, but for one thing. Why, if this bubble hadn't 
broken now," he said, tearing the letter he had written into frag- 
ments, and moodily casting them away, by driblets, " how could I 
have gone abroad ? I must have been ordered abroad ; but how 
could I have gone? How could I, with my experience of that 
thing, trust even Vholes unless I was at his back ! " 

I suppose he knew by my face what I was about to say, but he 
caught the hand I had laid upon his arm, and touched my own 
lips with it to prevent me from going on. 

"No, Dame Durden ! Two subjects I forbid — must forbid. 
The first is John Jarndyce. The second, you know what. Call 
it madness, and I tell you I can't help it now, and can't be sane. 
But it is no such thing ; it is the one object I have to pursue. It 
is a pity I ever was prevailed upon to turn out of my road for any 
other. It would be wisdom to abandon it now, after all the time, 
anxiety, and pains I have bestowed upon it ! yes, true wisdom. 
It would be very agreeable, too, to some people ; but I never will." 

He was in that mood in which I thought it best not to increase 
his determination (if anything could increase it) by opposing him. 
I took out Ada's letter, and put it in his hand. 

" Am I to read it now ? " he asked. 

As I told him yes, he laid it on the table, and, resting his head 
upon his hand, began. He had not read far, when he rested his 



57« BLEAK HOUSE. 

head upon his two hands — to hide his face from me. In a little 
while he rose as if the light \ ere oad, and went to the window. 
He finished reading it there, w ;h h back towards me ; and, after 
he had finished and had folded t up, stood there for some minutes 
with the letter in his hand. ^ . uen he came back to his chair, I 
saw tears iu his eyes. 

" Of course, Esther, you know what she says here 1 " He spoke 
in a softened voice, and kissed the letter as he asked me. 

"Yes, Eichard." 

" Offers me," he went on, tapping his foot upon the floor, " the 
little inheritance she is certain of so soon — just as little and as 
much as I have wasted — and begs and prays me to take it, set 
myself right with it, and remain in the service." 

" I know your welfare to be the dearest wish of her heart," said 
I. " And 0, my dear Richard, Ada's is a noble heart ! " 

" I am sure it is. I — I wish I was dead ! " 

He went back to the window, and laying his arm across it, 
leaned his head down on his arm. It greatly affected me to see 
him so ; but I hoped he might become more yielding, and I remained 
silent. My experience was very limited ; I was not at all prepared ' 
for his rousing himself out of this emoti i to a new sense of injury. 

"And this is the heart that thf ^ me John Jarndyce, who is 
not otherwise to be mentioned betw .n us, stepped in to estrange 
from me," said he, indignantly. "And the dear girl makes me 
this generous offer from under the same John Jarndyce's roof, and 
with the same John Jarndyce's gracious consent and connivance, I 
dare say, as a new means of buying me oft"." 

" Richard ! " I cried out, rising hastily, " I will not hear you 
say such shameful words ! " I was very angry with him indeed, 
for the first time in my life ; but it only lasted a moment. When 
I saw his worn young face looking at me, as if he were sorry, I 
put my hand on his shoulder, and said, " If you please, my dear 
Richard, do not speak in such a tone to me. Consider ! " 

He blamed himself exceedingly ; and told me in the most gen- 
erous manner, that he had been very wrong, and that he begged 
my pardon a thousand times. At that I laughed, but trembled a 
little too, for I was rather fluttered after being so fieiy. 

"To accept this offer, my dear Esther," said he, sitting down be- 
side me, and resuming our conversation, — " once more, pray,, pray 
forgive me ; I am deeply grieved — to accept my dearest cousin's 
offer is, I need not say, impossible. Besides, I have letters and 
papers that I could show you, which would convince you it is all 
over here. I have done with the red coat, believe me. But it is 
some satisfaction, in the midst of my troubles and perplexities, to 



PLEi^K HOUSE. 577 

know that I am iiressi' ^ A( i'-? interests in pressing my own. 
Vholes has his shoulder to th' wheel, and he cannot help urging it 
on as much for her as for ine,' thank God ! " 

His sanguine hopes were rising within hiin, and lighting up his 
features, but they made his face more sad to me than it had been 
before. 

"No, no!" cried Richard, exultingly. "If every farthing of 
Ada's little fortune were mine, no part of it should be spent yi re- 
taining me in what I am not fit for, can take no interest in, and 
am weary of It should be devoted to what promises a better 
return, and should be used where she has a larger stake. Don't 
be uneasy for me ! I shall now have only one thing on my mind, 
and Vholes and I will work it. I shall not be without means. 
Free of my commission, I shall be able to compound with some 
small usurers, who will hear of nothing but their bond now — ■ 
Vholes says so. I should have a balance in my favour any way, 
but that will swell it. Come, come ! You shall carry a letter to 
Ada from me, Esther, and you must both of you be more hopeful of 
me, and not believe tha I am quite cast away just yet, my dear." 

I will not repeat wha J" said to Richard. I know it was tire- 
some, and nobody is to suj. ose for a moment that it was at all 
wise. It only came from my heart. He heard it patiently and 
feelingly ; but I saw that on the two subjects he had reserved, 
it was at present hopeless to make any representation to him. 
I saw too, and had experienced in this very interview, the sense 
of my Guardian's remark that it was even more mischievous to 
use persuasion with him than to leave him as he was. 

Therefore I was driven at last to asking Richard if he would 
mind convincing me that it really was all over thei-e, as he had 
said, and that it was not his mere impression. He showed me 
without hesitation a correspondence making it quite plain that his 
retirement was arranged. I found, from what he told me, that 
Mr. Vholes had copies of these papers, and had been in consulta- 
tion with him throughout. Beyond ascertaining this, and having 
been the bearer of Ada's letter, and being (as I was going to be) 
Richard's companion back to London, I had done no good by 
coming down. Admitting this to myself with a reluctant heart, I 
said 1 would return to the hotel and wait until he joined me there ; 
so he threw a cloak over his shoulders and saw me to the gate, 
and Charley and I went back along the beach. 

There was a concourse of people in one spot, surrounding some 
naval officers who were landing from a boat, and pressing about 
them with unusual interest. I said to Charley this would be one 
of the great Indiaman's boats now, and we stopped to look, 

2p 



578 BLEAK HOUSE. 

The gentlemen came slowly up from the waterside, speaking 
good-humouredly to each other and to the people around, and glanc- 
ing about them as if they were glad to be in England again. 
" Charley, Charley ! " said I, " come away ! " And I hurried on so 
swiftly that my little maid was surprised. 

It was not until we were shut up in our cabin-room, and I had 
had time to take breath, that I began to think why I had made 
such haste. In one of the sun-burnt faces I had recognised Mr. 
Allan Woodcourt, and I had been afraid of his recognising me. I 
had been unwilling that he should see my altered looks. I had 
been taken by surprise, and my courage had quite failed me. 

But I knew this would not do, and I now said to myself, " My 
dear, there is no reason — there is and there can be no reason at 
all — why it should be worse for you now, than it ever has been. 
What you were last month, you are to-day ; you are no worse, you 
are no better. This is not your resolution ; call it up, Esther, call 
it up ! " I was in a great tremble — with running — and at first ' 
was quite unable to calm myself ; but I got better, and I was very 
glad to know it. 

The party came to the hotel. I heard them speaking on the 
staircase. I was sure it was the same gentlemen because I knew 
their voices again — I mean I knew Mr. Woodcourt's. It would 
still have been a great relief to me to have gone away without 
making myself known, but I was determined not to do so. " No, 
my dear, no. No, no, no ! " 

I untied my bonnet and put my veil half up — I think I mean 
half down, but it matters very little — and wrote on one of my 
cards that I happened to be there with Mr. Richard Carstone ; 
and I sent it in to Mr. Woodcourt. He came immediately. I 
told him I was rejoiced to be by chance among the first to welcome 
him home to England. And I saw that he was very sony for me. 

" You have been in shipAvreck and peril since you left us, Mr. 
Woodcourt," said I, "but we can hardly call that a misfortune 
which enabled you to be so useful and so brave. We read of it with 
the truest interest. It first came to my knowledge through your 
old patient poor Miss Elite, when I was recovering from my severe 
illness." 

" Ah ! little Miss Elite ! " he said. " She lives the same life 

yet?" 

" Just the same." 

I was so comfortable with myself now, as not to mind the veil, 
and to be able to put it aside. 

" Her gratitude to you, Mr. Woodcourt, is delightful. She is a 
most affectionate creature, as I have reason to say." 



BLEAK HOUSE. 579 

" You — you have found her so 1 " he returned. "I — I am glad 
of that." He was so very sorry for me that he could scarcely speak. 

"I assure you," said I, "that I was deeply touched by her sym- 
pathy and pleasure at the time I have referred to." 

" I was grieved to hear that you had been very ill." 

" I was very ill." 

"But you have quite recovered?" 

"I have quite recovered my health and my cheerfulness," said 
I. " You know how good my Guardian is, and what a happy life we 
lead ; and I have everything to be thankful for, and nothing in the 
world to desire." 

I felt as if he had greater commiseration for me than I had ever 
had for myself. It inspired me with new fortitude, and new calm- 
ness, to find tliat it was I who was under the necessity of reassuring 
him. I spoke to him of his voyage out and home, and of his future 
plans, and of his probable return to India. He said that was very 
doubtful. He had not found himself more favoured by fortune there, 
than here. He had gone out a poor ship's surgeon, and had come 
home nothing better. While we were talking, and when I was glad 
to believe that I had alleviated (if I may use such a term) the 
shock he had had in seeing me, Richard came in. He had heard 
down-stairs who was with me, and they met with cordial pleasure. 

I saw that after their first greetings were over, and when they 
spoke of Richard's career, Mr. Woodcourt had a perception that all 
was not going well with him. He frequently glanced at his face, 
as if there were something in it that gave him pain ; and more than 
once he looked towards me, as though he sought to ascertain whether 
I knew what the truth was. Yet Richard was in one of his san- 
guine states, and in good spirits ; and was thoroughly pleased to see 
Mr. Woodcourt again, whom he had always liked. 

Richard proposed that we all should go to London together ; but 
Mr. Woodcourt having to remain by his ship a little longer, could 
not join us. He dined with us, however, at an early hour ; and be- 
came so much more like what he used to be, that I was still more 
at peace to think I had been able to soften his regrets. Yet his 
mind was not relieved of Richard. When the coach was almost 
ready, and Richard ran down to look after his luggage, he spoke to 
me about him. 

I was not sure that I had a right to lay his whole story open ; 
but I referred in a few words to his estrangement from Mr. Jarn- 
dyce, and to his being entangled in the ill-fated Chancery suit. 
Mr. Woodcourt listened with interest and expressed his regret. 

" I saw you observe him rather closely," said I. " Do you think 
him so changed ? " 



580 BLEAK HOUSE. 

"He is changed," he returned, shaking his head. 

I felt the blood rush into my face for the first time, but it was 
only an instantaneous emotion. I turned my head aside, and it 
was gone. 

"It is not," said Mr. Woodcourt, "his being so much younger or 
older, or thinner or fatter, or paler or ruddier, as there being upon 
his face such a singular expression. I never saw so remarkable a 
look in a young person. One cannot say that it is all anxiety, or 
all weariness ; yet it is both, and like ungrown despair." 

" You do not think he is ill 1 " said I. 

No. He looked robust in body. 

" That he cannot be at peace in mind, we have too much reason 
to know," I proceeded. "Mr. Woodcourt, you are going to London 1 " 

" To-morrow or the next day." 

" Tliere is nothing Richard wants so much, as a friend. He 
always liked you. Pray see him when you get there. Pray help him 
sometimes with your companionship, if you can. You do not know 
of what service it might be. You cannot think how Ada, and Mr. 
Jarndyce, and even I — how we should all thank you, Mr. Wood- 
court ! " 

"Miss Summerson," he said, more moved than he had been from 
the first, " before Heaven, I will be a true friend to him ! I will 
accept him as a trust, and it shall be a sacred one ! " 

" God bless you ! " said I, with my eyes filling fast ; but I thought 
they might, when it was not for myself. " Ada loves him — we 
all love him, but Ada loves him as we cannot. I will tell her what • 
you say. Thank you, and God bless you, in her name ! " 

Eichard came back as we finished exchanging these hurried words, 
and gave me his arm to take me to the coach. 

"Woodcourt," he said, unconscious with what application, "pray 
let us meet in London ! " 

" Meet 1 " returned the other. " I have scarcely a friend there, ; 
now, but you. Where shall I find you ? " 

"Why, I must get a lodging of some sort," said Richard, pon- 
dering. " Say at Vholes's, Symond's Inn." 

" Good ! Without loss of time." 

They shook hands heartily. When I was seated in the coach, , , 
and Richard was yet standing in the street, Mr. Woodcourt laid his | 
friendly hand on Richard's shoulder, and looked at me. I under- ' ' 
stood him, and waved mine in thanks. 

And in his last look as we drove away, I saw that he was veiy 
sorry for me. I was glad to see it. I felt for my old self as the 
dead may feel if they ever revisit these scenes. I was glad to be 
tenderly remembered, to be gently pitied, not to be quite forgotten. 



BLEAK HOUSE. 581 

CHAPTER XLVI. 

STOP HIM ! 

Darkness rests upon Tom-all-Alone's. Dilating and dilating 
since the sun went down last night, it has gradually swelled until 
it fills every void in the ijlace. For a time there were some dungeon 
lights burning, as the lamp of Life burns in Tom-all-Alone's, heavily, 
heavily, in the nauseous air, and winking — as that lamp, too, winks 
in Tom-all-Alone's — at many horrible things. But they are blotted 
out. The moon has eyed Tom with a dull cold stare, as admitting 
some puny emulation of herself in his desert region unfit for life 
and blasted by volcanic fires ; but she has passed on, and is gone. 
The blackest nightmare in the infernal stables grazes on Tom-all- 
Alone's, and Tom is fast asleep. 

Much mighty speech-making there has been, both in and out of 
Parliament, concerning Tom, and much wrathful disputation how 
Tom shall be got riglit. Whether he shall be put into the main 
road by constables, or by beadles, or by bell-ringing, or by force of 
figures, or by correct principles of taste, or by high church, or by 
low church, or by no church ; whether he shall be set to splitting 
trusses of polemical straws with the crooked knife of his mind, or 
whether he shall be put to stone -breaking instead. In the midst 
of which dust and noise, there is but one thing perfectly clear, to 
wit, that Tom only may and can, or shall and will, be reclaimed 
according to somebody's theory but nobody's practice. And in 
the hopeful meantime, Tom goes to perdition head foremost in his 
old determined spirit. 

But he has his revenge. Even the winds are his messengers, 
and they serve him in these hours of darkness. There is not a 
drop of Tom's corrupted blood but propagates infection and conta- 
gion somewhere. It shall pollute, this very night, the choice 
stream (in which chemists on analysis would find the genuine 
nobility) of a Norman house, and his Grace shall not be able to say 
Nay to the infamous alliance. There is not an atom of Tom's 
slime, not a cubic inch of any pestilential gas in which he lives, 
not one obscenity or degradation about him, not an ignorance, not 
a wickedness, not a brutality of his committing, but shall work its 
retribution, through every order of society, up to the proudest of 
the proud, and to the highest of the high. Verily, what with 
tainting, plundering, and spoiling, Tom has his revenge. 

It is a moot point whether Tom-all-Alone's be uglier by day or 
by night ; but on the argument that the more that is seen of it the 
more shocking it must be, and that no part of it left to the imag- 




tom-all-alone's. 



BLEAK HOUSE. 583 

ination is at all likely to be made so bad as the reality, day carries 
it. The day begins to break now ; and in truth it might be better 
for the national glory even that the sun should sometimes set 
upon the British dominions, than that it should ever rise upon so 
vile a wonder as Tom. 

A brown sunburnt gentleman, who appears in some inaptitude 
for sleep to be wandering abroad rather than counting the hours 
on a restless pillow, strolls hitherward at this quiet time. At- 
tracted by curiosity, he often pauses and looks about him, up and 
down the miserable byeways. Nor is he merely curious, for in his 
bright dark eye there is compassionate interest ; and as he looks 
here and there, he seems to understand such wretchedness, and to 
have studied it before. 

On the banks of the stagnant channel of mud which is the main 
street of Tom-all-Alone's, nothing is to be seen but the crazy 
houses, shut up and silent. No waking creature save himself 
appears, except in one direction where he sees the solitary figure 
of a woman sitting on the doorstep. He walks that way. 
Approaching, he observes that she has journeyed a long distance, 
and is footsore and travel-stained. She sits on the doorstep 
in the manner of one who is waiting, with her elbow on her knee 
and her head upon her hand. Beside her is a canvas bag, or 
bundle, she has carried. She is dozing probably, for she gives no 
heed to his steps as he comes towards her. 

The broken footway is so narrow, that when Allan Woodcourt 
comes to where the woman sits, he has to turn into the road to 
pass her. Looking down at her face, his eye meets hers, and 
he stops. 

"What is the matter?" 

"Nothing, sir." 

" Can't you make them hear 1 Do you want to be let in 1 " 

" I'm waiting till they get up at another house — a lodging- 
house — not here," the woman patiently returns. "I'm waiting 
here because there will be sun here presently to warm me." 

" I am afraid you are tired. I am sorry to see you sitting in the 
street." 

" Thank you, sir. It don't matter." 

A habit in him of speaking to the poor, and of avoiding patron- 
age or condescension, or childishness (which is the favourite device, 
many people deeming it quite a subtlety to talk to them like little 
spelling books), has put him on good terms with the woman 
easily. 

" Let me look at your forehead," he says, bending down. " I am 
a doctor. Don't be afraid. I wouldn't hurt you for the world." 



584 BLEAK HOUSE. 

He knows that by touching her with his skilful and accustomed 
hand, he can soothe her yet more readily. She makes a slight 
objection, saying, " It's nothing ; " but he has scarcely laid his 
fingers on the wounded place when she lifts it up to the 
light. 

" Aye ! A bad bruise, and the skin sadly broken. This must 
be veiy sore." 

"It do ache a little, sir," returns the woman, with a started tear 
upon her cheek. 

" Let me try to make it more comfortable. My handkerchief 
won't hurt you." 

" dear no, sir, I'm sure of that ! " 

He cleanses the injvired place and dries it ; and having carefully 
examined it and gently pressed it with the palm of his hand, takes 
a small case from his pocket, dresses it, and binds it up. While 
he is thus employed, he says, after laughing at his establishing a 
surgery in the street : 

" And so your husband is a brickmaker ? " 

" How do you know that, sir 1 " asks the woman, astonished. 

" Why, I suppose so, from the colour of the clay upon your bag 
and on your dress. And I know brickmakers go about working 
at piecework in different places. And I am sorry to say I have 
known them cruel to their wives too." 

The woman hastily lifts up her eyes as if she would deny that 
her injury is referable to such a cause. But feeling the hand upon 
her forehead, and seeing his busy and cornposed face, she quietly 
drops them again. 

" Where is he now 1 " asks the surgeon. 

" He got into trouble last night, sir ; but he'll look for me at 
the lodging-house." 

" He will get into worse trouble if he often misuses his large 
and heavy hand as he has misused it here. But you forgive him, ■ 
brutal as he is, and I say no more of him, except that I wish ) 
he deserved it. You have no young child ? " 

The woman shakes her head. " One as I calls mine, sir, but 
it's Liz's." 

" Your own is dead. I see ! Poor little thing ! " 

By this time he has finished, and is putting up his case. " I 
suppose you have some settled home. Is it far from here 1 " he 
asks, good-humouredly making light of what he has done, as she 
gets up and curtseys. 

" It's a good two or three-and-twenty mile from here, sir. At 
Saint Albans. You know Saint Albans, sir? I thought you 
gave a start like, as if you did 1 " 



BLEAK HOUSE. 585 

" Yes, I know something of it. And now I will ask you a 
question in return. Have you money for your lodging ? " 

"Yes, sir," she says, "really and truly." And she shows it. 
He tells her, in acknowledgment of her many subdued thanks, that 
she is very welcome, gives her good day, and walks away. Tom- 
all- Alone's is still asleep, and nothing is astir. 

Yes, something is ! As he retraces his way to the point from 
which he descried the woman at a distance sitting on the step, he 
sees a ragged figure coming very cautiously along, crouching close 
to the soiled walls — which the wretchedest figure might as well 
avoid — and furtively thrusting a hand before it. It is the figure 
of a youth, whose face is hollow, and whose eyes have an emaciated 
glare. He is so intent on getting along unseen, that even the 
apparition of a stranger in whole garments does not tempt him to 
look back. He shades his face with his ragged elbow as he passes 
on the other side of the way, and goes shrinking and creeping on, 
with his anxious hand before him, and his shapeless clothes hang- 
ing in shreds. Clothes made for what purpose, or of what mate- 
rial, it would.be impossible to say. They look, in colour and in 
substance, like a bundle of rank leaves of swampy growth, that 
rotted long ago. 

Allan Woodcourt pauses to look after him and note all this, 
with a shadowy belief that he has seen the boy before. He can- 
not recall how, or where ; but there is some association in his 
mind with such a form. He imagines that he must have seen it 
in some hospital or refuge ; still, cannot make out why it comes 
with any special force on his remembrance. 

He is gradually emerging from Tom-all- Alone's in the morning 
light, thinking about it, when he hears running feet behind him ; 
and looking round, sees the boy scouring towards him at great 
speed, followed by the woman. 

" Stop him, stop him ! " cries the woman, almost breathless. 
" Stop him, sir ! " 

He darts across the road into the boy's path, but the boy is 
quicker than he — makes a curve — ducks — dives under his hands 
— comes up half-a-dozen yards beyond him, and scours away again. 
Still, the woman follows, crying, " Stop him, sir, pray stop him ! " 
Allan, not knowing but that he has just robbed her of her money, 
follows in chase, and runs so hard, that he runs the boy down a 
dozen times ; but each time he repeats the curve, the duck, the 
dive, and scours away again. To strike at him, on any of these 
occasions, would be to fell and disable him ; but the pursuer 
cannot resolve to do that ; and so the grimly ridiculous pursuit con- 
tinues. At last the fugitive, hard-pressed, takes to a narrow pas- 



586 BLEAK HOUSE. 

sage, and a court which has no thoroughfare. Here, against a 
hoarding of decaying timber, he is brought to bay, and tumbles 
down, lying gasping at his pursuer, who stands and gasps at him 
until the woman comes up. 

"0 you, Jo!" cries the woman. "What? I have found you 
at last ! " 

" Jo," repeats Allan, looking at him with attention, " Jo ! Stay. 
To be sure ! I recollect this lad some time ago being brought 
before the coroner." 

"Yes, I see you once afore at the Inkwhich," whimpers Jo. 
"What of that? Can't you never let such an unfortnet as me 
alone? An't I unfortnet enough for you yet? How unfortnet 
do you want me fur to be ? I've been a chivied and a chivied, 
fust by one on you and nixt by another on you, till I'm worrited 
to skins and bones. The Inkwhich warn't my fault. / done 
nothink. He wos wery good to me, he wos ; he wos the only one 
I knowed to speak to, as ever come across my crossing. It an't 
wery likely I should want him to be Inkwhich'd. I only wish I 
wos, myself I don't know why I don't go and make a hole in ] 
the water, I'm sure I don't." ! 

He says it with such a pitiable air, and his grimy tears appear 
so real, and he lies in the corner up against the hoarding so like a 
growth of fungus or any unwholesome excrescence produced there 
in neglect and impurity, that Allan Woodcourt is softened towards 
him. He says to the woman, " Miserable creature, what has he 
done ? " 

To which she only replies, shaking her head at the prostrate 
figure more amazedly than angrily : "0 you Jo, you Jo. I have 
found you at last ! " 

" What has he done ? " says Allan. " Has he robbed you ? " 

"No, sir, no. Robbed me? He did nothing but what was 
kind-hearted by me, and that's the wonder of it." 

Allan looks from Jo to the woman, and from the woman to Jo, 
waiting for one of them to unravel the riddle. 

"But he was along with me, sir," says the woman, — "0 you 
Jo ! — he was along with me, sir, down to Saint Albans, ill, and 
a young lady Lord bless her for a good friend to me took pity on 
him when I durstn't, and took him home — " 

Allan shrinks back from him with a sudden horror. 

"Yes, sir, yes. Took him home, and made him comfortable, 
and like a thankless monster he ran away in the night, and never 
has been seen or heard of since, till I set eyes on him just now. 
And that young lady that was such a pretty dear, caught his ill- 
ness," lost her beautiful looks, and wouldn't hardly be known for 



BLEAK HOUSE. 587 

the same young lady now, if it wasn't for her angel temper, and 
her pretty shape, and her sweet voice. Do you know it ? You 
ungrateful wretch, do you know that this is all along of you and 
of her goodness to you 1 " demands the woman, beginning to rage 
at him as she recalls it, and breaking into passionate tears. 

The boy, in rough sort stunned by what he hears, falls to smear- 
ing his dirty forehead with his dirty palm, and to staring at the 
ground, and to shaking from head to foot until the crazy hoarding 
against which he leans, rattles. 

Allan restrains the woman, merely by a quiet gesture, but 
effectually. 

"Richard told me," he falters, " — I mean, I have heard of 
this — don't mind me for a moment, I will speak presently." 

He turns away, and stands for a while looking out at the cov- 
ered passage. When he comes back, he has recovered his com- 
posure ; except that he contends against an avoidance of the boy, 
which is so very remarkable, that it absorbs the woman's attention. 

" You hear what she says. But get up, get up ! " 

Jo, shaking and chattering, slowly rises, and stands, after the 
manner of his tribe in a difficulty, sideways against the hoarding, 
resting one of his high shoulders against it, and covertly rubbing 
his right hand over his left, and his left boot over his right. 

"You hear what she says, and I know it's true. Have you 
been here ever since 1 " 

" Wishermaydie if I seen Tom-all- Alone's till this blessed morn- 
ing," replies Jo, hoarsely. 

"Why have you come here now?" 

Jo looks all round the confined court, looks at his questioner no 
higher than the knees, and finally answers : 

" I don't know how to do nothink, and I can't get nothink to 
do. I'm wery poor and ill, and I thought I'd come back here when 
there warn't nobody about, and lay down and hide somewheres as 
I knows on till arter dark, and then go and beg a trifle of Mr. 
Sangsby. He wos alius willin fur to give me somethink he wos, 
though Mrs. Sangsby she wos alius a chivying on me — like 
everybody every wheres." 

" Where have you come from ? " 

Jo looks all round the court again, looks at his questioner's 
knees again, and concludes by laying his profile against the 
hoarding in a sort of resignation. 

" Did you hear me ask you where you have come from ? " 

" Tramp then," says Jo. 

"Now, tell me," proceeds Allan, making a strong effort to over- 
come his repugnance, going very near to him, and leaning over him 



588 BLEAK HOUSE. 

with an expression of confidence, " tell me how it came about that 
you left that house, when the good young lady had been so unfort- 
unate as to pity you, and take you home." 

Jo suddenly comes out of his resignation, and excitedly declares, 
addressing the woman, that he never known about the young 
lady, that he never heern about it, that he never went fur to 
hurt her, that he would sooner have hurt his own self, that he'd 
sooner have had his unfortnet ed chopped off" than ever gone a nigh 
her, and that she wos wery good to him, she wos. Conducting 
himself throughout as if in his poor fashion he really meant it, and 
winding up with some very miserable sobs. 

Allan Woodcourt sees that this is not a sham. He constrains 
himself to touch him. "Come, Jo. Tell me." 

" No. I dustn't," says Jo, relapsing into the profile state. " I 
dustn't, or I would." 

" But I must know," returns the other, " all the same. Come, Jo." 

After two or three such adjurations, Jo lifts up his head again, 
looks round the court again, and says in a low voice, " Well, I'll 
tell you somethink. I was took away. There ! " 

" Took away ? In the night 1 " 

" Ah ! " Very apprehensive of being overheard, Jo looks about 
him, and even glances up some ten feet at the top of the hoarding, 
and through the cracks in it, lest the object of his distrust should 
be looking over, or hidden on the other side. 

" Who took you away ? " 

" I dustn't name him," says Jo. " I dustn't do it, sir." 

"But I want, in the young lady's name, to know. You may 
trust me. No one else shall hear." 

"Ah, but I don't know," replies Jo, shaking his head fearfully, 
"as he don't hear." 

" Why, he is not in this place." ' 

"Oh, ain't he though?" says Jo. "He's in all manner of! 
places, all at wunst." 

Allan looks at him in perplexity, but discovers some real mean- 
. ing and good faith at the bottom of this bewildering reply. He 
patiently awaits an explicit answer ; and Jo, more baffled by his 
patience than by anything else, at last desperately whispers a. 
name in his ear. I 

" Aye ! " says Allan. " Why, what had you been doing ? " - 

"Nothink, sir. Never done nothink to get myself into no 
trouble, 'sept in not moving on and the Inkwhich. But I'm a 
moving on now. I'm a moving on to the berryin ground — that's 
the move as I'm up to." 

" No, no, we will try to prevent that. But what did he do 
with you?" 

i 



BLEAK HOUSE. 589 

"Put me in a horsepittle," replied Jo, whispering, "till I was 
discliarged, then giv me a little money — four half bulls, wot 
you may call half-crowns — and ses ' Hook it ! Nobody wants you 
here,' he ses. 'You hook it. You go and tramp,' he ses. 'You 
move on,' he ses. 'Don't let me ever see you nowheres within 
forty mile of London, or you'll repent it.' So I shall, if ever he 
doos see me, and he'll see me if I'm above ground," concludes Jo, 
nervously repeating all his former precautions and investigations. 

Allan considers a little ; then remarks, turning to the woman, 
but keeping an encouraging eye on Jo : " He is not so ungrateful 
as you supposed. He had a reason for going away, though it was 
an insufficient one." 

"Thank'ee, sir, thank'ee ! " exclaims Jo. "There now! See 
how hard you wos upon me. But ony you tell the young lady wot 
the genlmn ses, and it's all right. For you wos wery good to me 
too, and I knows it." 

" Now, Jo," says Allan, keeping his eye upon him, " come with 
me, and I will find you a better place than this to lie down and 
hide in. If I take one side of the way and you the other, to avoid 
observation, you will not run away, I know very well, if you make 
me a promise." 

"I won't, not unless I wos to see him a coming, sir." 

" Very well. I take your word. Half the town is getting up 
by this time, and the whole town will be broad awake in another 
hour. Come along. Good day again, my good woman." 

" Good day again, sir, and I thank you kindly many times again." 

She has been sitting on her bag, deeply attentive, and now rises 
and takes it up. Jo, repeating, " Ony you tell the young lady as I 
never went fur to hurt her and wot the genlmn ses ! " nods and 
shambles and shivers, and smears and blinks, and half laughs and 
half cries, a farewell to her, and takes his creeping way along after 
Allan Woodcourt, close to the houses on the opposite side of the 
street. In this order, the two come up out of Tom-all- Alone's into 
the broad rays of the sunlight and the purer air. 



CHAPTER XL VII. 

jo's will. 

As Allan Woodcourt and Jo proceed along the streets, where the 
high church spires and the distances are so near and clear in the 
morning light that the city itself seems renewed by rest, Allan 
revolves in his mind how and where he shall bestow his compan- 
ion. "It surely is a strange fact," he considers, "that in the heart 



590 BLEAK HOUSE. 

of a civilised world this creature in human form should be more 
difficult to dispose of than an unowned dog." But it is none the 
less a fact because of its strangeness, and the difficulty remains. 

At first, he looks behind him often, to assure himself that Jo is 
still really following. But, look where he will, he still beholds 
him close to the opposite houses, making his way with his wary 
hand from brick to brick and from door to door, and often, as 
he creeps along, glancing over at him, watchfully. Soon satisfied 
that the last thing in his thoughts is to give him the slip, Allan 
goes on ; considering with a less divided attention what he shall 
do. 

A breakfast-stall at a street corner suggests the first thing to be 
done. He stops there, looks round, and beckons Jo. Jo crosses, 
and comes halting and shuffling up, slowly scooping the knuckles 
of his right hand round and round in the hollowed palm of his left 
— kneading dirt with a natural pestle and mortar. What is a 
dainty repast to Jo is then set before him, and he begins to gulp 
the cofi"ee, and to gnaw the bread and butter ; looking anxiously 
about him in all directions as he eats and drinks, like a scared 
animal. 

But he is so sick and miserable, that even hunger has abandoned 
him. "I thought I was amost a starvin, sir," says Jo, soon put- 
ting down his food; "but I don't know nothink — not even that. 
I don't care for eating wittles nor yet for drinking on em." 
And Jo stands shivering, and looking at the breakfast won- 
deringly. 

Allan Woodcourt lays his hand upon his pulse, and on his chest. 
" Draw breath, Jo ! " " It draws," says Jo, " as heavy as a cart." 
He might add, " and rattles like it ; " but he only mutters, " I'm 
a moving on, sir." 

Allan looks about for an apothecary's shop. There is none at 
hand, but a tavern does as well or better. He obtains a little 
measure of wine, and gives the lad a portion of it very carefully. 
He begins to revive, almost as soon as it passes his lips. " We 
may repeat that dose, Jo," observes Allan, after watching him 
with his attentive face. " So ! Now we will take five minutes 
rest, and then go on again." 

Leaving the boy sitting on the bench of the breakfast-stall, with 
his back against an iron railing, Allan Woodcourt paces up and 
down in the early sunshine, casting an occasional look towards 
him without appearing to watch liim. It requires no discernment 
to perceive that he is warmed and refreshed. If a face so shaded 
can brighten, his face brightens somewhat ; and, by little and little, 
he eats the slice of bread he had so hopelessly laid down. Observ- 



BLEAK HOUSE. 601 

ant of these signs of improvement, Allan engages him in conversa- 
tion ; and elicits to his no small wonder the adventure of the lady 
in the veil, with all its consequences. Jo slowly munches, as he 
slowly tells it. When he has finished his story and his bread, 
they go on again. 

Intending to refer his difficulty in finding a temporary place of 
refuge for the boy, to his old patient, zealous little Miss Flite, 
Allan leads the way to the court where he and Jo first foregath- 
ered. But all is changed at the rag-and-bottle shop ; Miss Flite 
no longer lodges there ; it is shut up ; and a hard-featured female, 
much obscured by dust, whose age is a problem — but who is in- 
deed no other than the interesting Judy — is tart and spare in her 
replies. These sufficing, however, to inform the visitor that Miss 
Flite and her birds are domiciled with a Mrs. Blinder, in Bell 
Yard, he repairs to that neighbouring place ; where Miss Flite 
(who rises early that she may be punctual at the Divan of justice 
held by her excellent friend the Chancellor) comes running down- 
stairs, with tears of welcome and with open arms. 

"My dear physician!" cries Miss Flite. "My meritorious, 
distinguished, honourable officer ! " She uses some odd expressions, 
but is as cordial and full of heart as sanity itself can be — more so 
than it often is. Allan, very patient with her, waits until she has 
no more raptures to express ; then points out Jo, trembling in a 
door-way, and tells her how he comes there. 

" Where can I lodge him hereabouts for the present? Now you 
have a fund of knowledge and good sense, and can advise me." 

Miss Flite, mighty proud of the compliment, sets herself to con- 
sider ; but it is long before a bright thought occurs to her. Mrs. 
Blinder is entirely let, and she herself occupies poor Gridley's room. 
" Gridley ! " exclaims Miss Flite, clapping her hands, after a twen- 
tieth repetition of this remark. " Gridley ! To be sure ! of course ! 
My dear physician ! General George will help us out." 

It is hopeless to ask for any information about General George, 
and would be, though Miss Flite had not already run up-stairs to 
put on her pinched bonnet and her poor little shawl, and to arm 
herself with her reticule of documents. But as she informs her 
physician, in her disjointed manner, on coming down in full array, 
that General George, whom she often calls upon, knows her dear 
Fitz-Jarndyce, and takes a great interest in all connected with her, 
Allan is induced to think that they may be in the right way. So 
he tells Jo, for his encouragement, that this walking about will 
soon be over now ; and they repair to the General's. Fortunately 
it is not far. 

From the exterior of George's Shooting Gallery, and the long 



692 BLEAK HOUSE. 

entry, and the bare perspective beyond it, Allan Woodcourt augurs 
well. He also descries promise in the figure of Mr. George hiinself, 
striding towards them in his morning exercise with his pipe in his 
mouth, no stock on, and his muscular arms, developed by broad- 
sword and dumb-bell, weightily asserting themselves through his 
light shirt-sleeves. 

"Your servant, sir," says Mr. George, with a military salute. 
Good-humouredly smilmg all over his broad forehead up into his 
crisp hair, he then defers to Miss Flite, as, with great stateli- 
ness, and at some length, she performs the courtly ceremony of 
presentation. He winds it up with another "Your servant, sir!" 
and another salute. 

"Excuse me, sir. A sailor, I believe?" says Mr. George. 

" I am proud to find I have the air of one," returns Allan ; "but 
I am only a sea-going doctor." 

" Indeed, sir ! I should have thought you was a regular blue- 
jacket, myself." 

Allan hopes Mr. George will forgive his intrusion the more 
readily on that account, and particularly that he will not lay aside 
his pipe, which, in his politeness, he has testified some intention 
of doing. "You are very good, sir," returns the trooper. "As I 
know, by experience, that it's not disagreeable to Miss Flite, and 
since it's equally agreeable to yourself " and finishes the sen- 
tence by putting it between his lips again. Allan proceeds to tell 
him all he knows about Jo ; unto which the trooper listens with a 
grave face. 

" And that's the lad, sir, is it ? " he inquires, looking along the 
entry to where Jo stands staring up at the great letters on the 
whitewashed front, which have no meaning in his eyes. 

"That's he," says Allan. "And, Mr. George, I am in this 
difficulty about him. I am unwilling to place him in a hospital, 
even if I could procure him immediate admission, because I foresee 
that he would not stay there many hours, if he could be so much 
as got there. The same objection applies to a workhouse ; sup- 
posing I had the patience to be evaded and shirked, and handed 
about from post to pillar in trying to get him into one — which is 
a system that I don't take kindly to." 

"No man does, sir," returns Mr. George. 

"I am convinced that he would not remain in either place, 
because he is possessed by an extraordinary terror of this person 
who ordered him to keep out of the way; in his ignorance, he 
believes this person to be everywhere, and cognisant of everything:" 

"I ask your pardon, sir," says Mr, George. "But you have 
not mentioned that party's name. Is it a secret, sir ? " 



BLEAK HOUSE. 693 

" The boy makes it one. But the name is Bucket." 

" Bucket the Detective, sir 1 " 

" The same man." 

"The man is known to me, sir," returns the trooper, after blow- 
ing out a cloud of smoke, and squaring his chest ; " and the boy is 
so far correct that he undoubtedly is a — rum customer." Mr. 
George smokes with a profound meaning after this, and surveys 
Miss Flite in silence. 

" Now, I wish Mr. Jarndyce and Miss Summerson at least to 
know that this Jo, who tells so strange a story, has reappeared; 
and to have it in their power to speak with him, if they should 
desire to do so. Therefore I want to get him, for the present 
moment, into any poor lodging kept by decent people, where he 
would be admitted. Decent people and Jo, Mr. George," says 
Allan, following the direction of the trooper's eyes along the entry, 
" have not been much acquainted, as you see. Hence the difficulty. 
Do you happen to know any one in this neighbourhood, who would 
receive him for a while, on my paying for him beforehand 1 " 

As he puts the question, he becomes aware of a dirty-faced little 
man, standing at the trooper's elbow, and looking up, with an 
oddly twisted figure and countenance, into the trooper's face. 
After a few more puffs at his pipe, the trooper looks down askant 
at the little man, and the little man winks up at the trooper. 

"Well, sir," says Mr. George, "I can assure you that I would 
willingly be knocked on the head at any time, if it would be at 
all agreeable to Miss Summerson ; and consequently I esteem it a 
privilege to do that young lady any service, however small. We 
are naturally in the vagabond way here, sir, both myself and Phil. 
You see what the place is. You are welcome to a quiet corner of 
it for the boy, if the same would meet your views. No charge 
made, except for rations. We are not in a flourishing state of cir- 
cumstances here, sir. We are liable to be tumbled out neck and 
crop, at a moment's notice. However, sir, such as the place is, 
and so long as it lasts, here it is at your service." 

With a comprehensive wave of his pipe, Mr. George places the 
whole building at his visitor's disposal. 

"I take it for granted, sir," he adds, "you being one of the 
medical staff", that there is no present infection about this 
unfortunate subject?" 

Allan is quite sure of it. 

" Because, sir," says Mr. George, shaking his head sorrowfully, 
" we have had enough of that." 

His tone is no less sorrowfully echoed by his new acquaintance. 
'-'Still, I am bound to tell you," observes Allan, after repeating his 

2q 



594 BLEAK HOUSE. 

former assurance, "that the boy is deplorably low and reduced; 
and that he may be — I do not say that he is — too far gone to 
recover." 

"Do you consider him in present danger, sir?" inquires the 
trooper. 

"Yes, I fear so." 

"Then, sir," returns the trooper, in a decisive manner, "it 
appears to me — being naturally in the vagabond way myself — 
that the sooner he comes out of the street, the better. You Phil ! 
Bring him in ! " 

Mr. Squod tacks out, all on one side, to execute the word of 
command ; and the trooper, having smoked his pipe, lays it by. 
Jo is brought in. He is not one of Mrs. Pardiggle's Tockahoopo 
Indians; he is not one of Mrs. Jellyby's lambs, being wholly 
unconnected with Borrioboola-Gha ; he is not softened by distance 
and unfamiliarity ; he is not a genuine foreign-grown savage ; he 
is the ordinary home-made article. Dirty, ugly, disagreeable to all 
the senses, in body a common creature of the common streets, only 
in soul a heathen. Homely filth begrimes him, homely parasites 
devour him, homely sores are in him, homely rags are on him : 
native ignorance, the growth of English soil and climate, sinks his 
immortal nature lower than the beasts that perish. Stand forth, 
Jo, in uncompromising colours ! From the sole of thy foot to the 
crown of thy head, there is nothing interesting about thee. 

He shufiies slowly into Mr. George's gallery, and stands huddled 
together in a bundle, looking all about the floor. He seems to 
know that they have an inclination to shrink from him, partly for 
what he is, and partly for what he has caused. He, too, shrinks 
from them. He is not of the same order of things, not of the 
same place in creation. He is of no order and no place ; neither 
of the beasts, nor of humanity. 

"Look here, Jo ! " says Allan. " This is Mr. George." 

Jo searches the floor for some time longer, then looks up for a 
moment, and then down again. 

" He is a kind friend to you, for he is going to give you lodging- 
room here." 

Jo makes a scoop with one hand, which is supposed to be a 
bow. After a little more consideration, and some backing and ' 
changing of the foot on which he rests, he mutters that he is 
" wery thankful." 

" You are quite safe here. All you have to do at present is to 
be obedient, and to get strong. And mind you tell us the tnith 
here, whatever you do, Jo." 

" Wishermaydie if I don't, sir," says Jo, reverting to his favourite 



BLEAK HOUSE. 595 

declaration. " I never done nothink yit, but wot you knows on, 
to get myself into no trouble. I never was in no other trouble at 
all, sir — 'sept not knowin' nothink and starwation." 

" I believe it. Now attend to Mr. George. I see he is going to 
speak to you." 

" My intention merely was, sir," observes Mr. George, amazingly 
broad and upright, " to point out to him where he can lie down, 
and get a thorough good dose of sleep. Now, look here." As the 
trooper speaks, he conducts them to the other end of the gallery, 
and opens one of the little cabins. " There you are, you see ! 
Here is a mattress, and here you may rest, on good behaviour, as 
long as Mr., I ask your pardon, sir ; " he refers apologetically to 
the card Allan has given him ; " Mr. Woodcourt pleases. Don't 
you be alarmed if you hear shots ; they'll be aimed at the target, 
and not you. Now there's another thing I would recommend, sir," 
says the trooper, turning to his visitor. " Phil, come here ! " 

Phil bears down upon them, according to his usual tactics. 

" Here is a man, sir, who was found, when a baby, in the 
gutter. Consequently, it is to be expected that he takes a 
natural interest in this poor creature. You do, don't you, Phil ? " 

"Certainly and surely I do, guv'ner," is Phil's reply. 

" Now I was thinking, sir," says Mr. George, in a martial sort 
of confidence, as if he were giving his opinion in a council of war at 
a drum-head, " that if this man was to take him to a bath, and 
was to lay out a few shillings in getting him one or two coarse 
articles " 

" Mr. George, my considerate friend," returns Allan, taking out 
his purse, "it is the very favour I would have asked." 

Phil Squod and Jo are sent out immediately on this work of 
improvement. Miss Flite, quite enraptured by her success, makes 
the best of her way to Court ; having great fears that other- 
wise her friend the Chancellor may be uneasy about her, or may 
give the judgment she has so long expected, in her absence ; and 
observing " which you know, my dear physician, and general, after 
so many years, would be too absurdly unfortunate ! " Allan takes 
the opportunity of going out to procure some restorative medi- 
cines ; and obtaining them near at hand, soon returns, to find 
the trooper walking up and down the gallery, and to fall into step 
and walk with him. 

"I take it, sir," says Mr. George, "that you know Miss Sum- 
merson pretty well ? " 

Yes, it appears. 

" Not related to her, sir ? " 

No, it appears. 



596 BLEAK HOUSE. 

" Excuse the apparent curiosity," says Mr. George. " It seemed 
to me probable that you might take more than a common interest 
in this poor creature, because Miss Summerson had taken that 
unfortunate interest in him. 'Tis my case, sir, I assure you." 

" And mine, Mr. George." 

The trooper looks sideways at Allan's sunburnt cheek and 
bright dark eye, rapidly measures his height and build, and seems 
to approve of him. 

" Since you have been out, sir, I have been thinking that I 
unquestionably know the rooms in Lincoln's Inn Fields, where 
Bucket took the lad, according to his account. Though he is not 
acquainted with the name, I can help you to it. It's Tulkinghorn. 
That's what it is." 

Allan looks at him inquiringly, repeating the name. 

" Tulkinghorn. That's the name, sir. I know the man ; and 
know him to have been in communication with Bucket before, 
respecting a deceased person who had given him offence. / know 
the man, sir. To my sorrow." 

Allan naturally asks what kind of man he is ? - 

" What kind of man. Do you mean to look at ? " ] 

" I think I know that much of him. I mean to deal with. 
Generally, what kind of man ? " 

"Why, then I'll tell you, sir," returns the trooper, stopping 
short, and folding his arms on his square chest, so angrily, that his , 
face fires and flushes all over ; " he is a confoundedly bad kind of 
man. He is a slow-torturing kind of man. He is no more like 
flesh and blood, than a rusty old carbine is. He is a kind of man 

— by George ! — that has caused me more restlessness, and more 
uneasiness, and more- dissatisfaction with myself, than all other 
men put together. That's the kind of man Mr. Tulkinghorn is ! " 

" I am sorry," says Allan, " to have touched so sore a place." 
" Sore 1 " The trooper plants his legs wider apart, wets the 
palm of his broad right hand, and lays it on his imaginary 
moustache. " It's no fault of yours, sir ; but you shall judge. He 
has got a power over me. He is the man I spoke of just now, as 
being able to tumble me out of this place neck and crop. He 
keeps me on a constant see-saw. He won't hold off, and he won't 
come on. If I have a payment to make him, or time to ask him 
for, or anything to go to him about, he don't see me, don't hear me 

— passes me on to Melchisedech's in Clifford's Inn, Melchisedech's 
in Clifford's Inn passes me back again to him — he keeps me 
prowling and dangling about him, as if I was made of the same 
stone as himself. Why, I spend half my life now, pretty well, 
loitering and dodging about his door. What does he care 1 Noth- 



BLEAK HOUSE. 597 

ing. Just as much as the rusty old carbine I have compared him 
to. He chafes and goads me, till — Bah ! nonsense — I am 
forgetting myself. Mr. Woodcourt ; " the trooper resumes his 
march ; " all I say is, he is an old man ; but I am glad I shall 
never have the chance of setting spurs to my horse, and riding at 
him in a fair field. For if I had that chance, in one of the humours 
he drives me into — he'd go down, sir ! " 

Mr. George has been so excited, that he finds it necessary to wipe 
his forehead on his shirt-sleeve. Even while he whistles his impet- 
uosity away with the National Anthem, some involuntary shakings 
of his head and heavings of his chest still linger behind ; not to 
mention an occasional hasty adjustment with both hands of his 
open shirt-collar, as if it were scarcely open enough to prevent his 
being troubled by a choking sensation. In short, Allan Woodcourt 
has not much doubt about the going down of Mr. Tulkinghorn on 
the field referred to. 

Jo and his conductor presently return, and Jo is assisted to his 
mattress by the careful Phil ; to whom, after due administration of 
medicine by his own hands, Allan confides all needful means and 
instructions. The morning is by this time getting on apace. He 
repairs to his lodgings to dress and breakfast ; and then, without 
seeking rest, goes away to Mr. Jarndyce to communicate his dis- 
covery. 

With him Mr. Jarndyce returns alone, confidentially telling him 
that there are reasons for keeping this matter very quiet indeed ; 
and showing a serious interest in it. To Mr. Jarndyce, Jo repeats 
in substance what he said in the morning ; without any material 
variation. Only, that cart of his is heavier to draw, and draws 
with a hollower sound. 

"Let me lay here quiet, and not be chivied no more," falters 
Jo ; "and be so kind any person as is a passin' nigh where I used 
fur to sweep, as jist to say to Mr. Sangsby that Jo, wot he known 
once, is a moving on right forards with his duty, and I'll be wery 
thankful. I'd be more thankful than I am aready, if it was any 
ways possible for an unfortnet to be it." 

He makes so many of these references to the law-stationer in 
the course of a day or two, that Allan, after conferring with Mr. 
Jarndyce, good-naturedly resolves to call in Cook's Court; the 
rather, as the cart seems to be breaking doAvn. 

To Cook's Court, therefore, he repairs. Mr. Snagsby is behind 
his counter in his grey coat and sleeves, inspecting an Indenture of 
several skins which has just come in from the engrosser's ; an im- 
mense desert of law-hand and parchment, with here and there a rest- 
ing-place of a few large letters, to break the awful monotony, and 



598 BLEAK HOUSE. 

save the traveller from despair. Mr. Snagsby puts up at one of 
these inky wells, and greets the stranger with his cough of general 
preparation for business. 

"You don't remember me, Mr. Snagsby?" 

The stationer's heart begins to thump heavily, for his old appre- 
hensions have never abated. It is as much as he can do to answer, 
"No, sir, I can't say I do. I should have considered — not to put 
too fine a point upon it — that I never saw you before, sir." 

"Twice before," says Allan Woodcourt. "Once at a poor bed- 
side, and once " 

" It's come at last ! " thinks the afflicted stationer, as recollection 
breaks upon him. "It's got to a head now, and is going to 
burst ! " But, he has sufficient presence of mind to conduct his 
visitor into the little counting-house, and to shut the door. 

" Are you a married man, sir 1 " 

"No, I am not." 

"Would you make the attempt, though single," says Mr. 
Snagsby in a melancholy whisper, " to speak as low as you can 1 
For my little woman is a listening somewheres, or I'll forfeit the 
business and five hundred pound ! " 

In deep dejection Mr. Snagsby sits down on his stool, with his 
back against his desk, protesting : 

" I never had a secret of my own, sir. I can't charge my mem- 
ory with ever having once attempted to deceive my little woman 
on my own account, since she named the day. I wouldn't have 
done it, sir. Not to put too fine a point upon it, I couldn't have 
done it, I durstn't have done it. Whereas, and nevertheless, I 
find myself wrapped round with secrecy and mystery, till my life is 
a burden to me." 

His visitor professes his regret to hear it, and asks him does he 
remember Jo 1 Mr. Snagsby answers with a suppressed groan, O 
don't he ! 

" You couldn't name an individual human being — except my- 
self — that my little woman is more set and determined against 
than Jo," says Mr. Snagsby. 

Allan asks why? 

" Why ? " repeats Mr. Snagsby, in his desperation clutching at the 
clump of hair at the back of his bald head, " How should / know 
why ? But you are a single person, sir, and may you long be 
spared to ask a married person such a question ! " 

With this beneficent wish, Mr. Snagsby coughs a cough of dismal 
resignation, and submits himself to hear what the visitor has to 
communicate. 

" There again ! " says Mr. Snagsby, who, between the earnestness 



BLEAK HOUSE. 599 

of his feelings, and the suppressed tones of his voice, is discoloured 
in the face. "At it again, in a new direction ! A certain person 
charges me, in the solemnest way, not to talk of Jo to any one, 
even my little woman. Then comes another certain person, in the 
person of yourself, and charges me, in an equally solemn way, not 
to mention Jo to that other certain person above all other persons. 
Why, this is a private asylum ! Why, not to put too fine a point 
upon it, this is Bedlam, sir ! " says Mr. Snagsby. 

But it is better than he expected, after all ; being no explosion of 
the mine below him, or deepening of the pit into which he has 
fallen. And being tender-hearted, and affected by the account he 
hears of Jo's condition, he readily engages to "look round," as 
early in the evening as he can manage it quietly. He looks round 
very quietly, when the evening comes ; but it may turn out that 
Mrs. Snagsby is as quiet a manager as he. 

Jo is very glad to see his old friend ; and says, when they are 
left alone, that he takes it uncommon kind as Mr. Sangsby should 
come so far out of his way on accounts of sich as him. Mr. 
Snagsby, touched by the spectacle before him, immediately lays 
upon the table half-a-crown : that magic balsam of his for all 
kinds of wounds. 

"And how do you find yourself, my poor lad?" inquires the 
stationer, with his cough of sympathy. 

"I am in luck, Mr. Sangsby, I am," returns Jo, "and don't 
want for nothink. I'm more cumfbler nor you can't think. Mr. 
Sangsby ! I'm wery sorry that I done it, but I didn't go fur to do 
it, sir." 

The stationer softly lays down another half-crown, and asks him 
what it is that he is sorry for having done 1 

" Mr. Sangsby," says Jo, "I went and giv a illness to the lady 
as wos and yit as warn't the t'other lady, and none of em never 
says nothink to me for having done it, on accovmts of their being 
ser good and my having been s' unfortnet. The lady come herself 
and see me yesday, and she ses, 'Ah Jo ! ' she ses. ' We thought 
we'd lost you, Jo ! ' she ses. And she sits down a smilin so quiet, 
and don't pass a word nor yit a look upon me for having done it, 
she don't, and I turns agin the wall, I doos, Mr. Sangsby. And 
Mr. Jarnders, I see him a forced to turn away his own self. And 
Mr. Woodcot, he come fur to giv me somethink fur to ease me, wot 
he's alius a doin on day and night, and wen he come a bendin over 
me and a speakin up so bold, I see his tears a fallin, Mr. Sangsby." 

The softened stationer deposits another half-crown on the table. 
Nothing less than a repetition of that infallible remedy will relieve 
his feelings. 



600 BLEAK HOUSE. 

" Wot I wos a tliinkin on, Mr. Sangsby," proceeds Jo, " wos, as 
you wos able to write wery large, p'raps ? " 

"Yes, Jo, please God," returns the stationer. 

"Uncommon precious large, p'raps?" says Jo, with eagerness. 

"Yes, my poor boy." 

Jo laughs with pleasure. "Wot I wos a thinkin on then, Mr. 
Sangsby, wos, that wen I was moved on as fur as ever I could go 
and couldn't be moved no furder, whether you might be so good 
p'raps, as to write out, wery large so that any one could see it any- 
wheres, as that I wos wery truly hearty sorry that I done it and 
that I never went fur to do it ; and that though I didn't know 
nothink at all, I knowd as Mr. Woodcot once cried over it and wos 
alius grieved over it, and that I hoped as he'd be able to forgiv me 
in his mind. If the writin could be made to say it wery large, 
he might." 

"It shall say it, Jo. Very large." 

Jo laughs again. " Thankee, Mr. Sangsby. It's wery kind of 
you, sir, and it makes me more cumfbler nor I was afore." 

The meek little stationer, with a broken and unfinished cough, 
slips down his fourth half-crown — he has never been so close to a 
case requiring so many — and is fain to depart. And Jo and he, 
upon this little earth, shall meet no more. No more. 

For the cart so hard to draw, is near its journey's end, and drags 
over stony ground. All round the clock, it labours up the broken 
steeps, shattered and worn. Not many times can the sun rise, and 
behold it still upon its weary road. 

Phil Squod, with his smoky gunpowder visage, at once acts as 
nurse and works as armourer at his little table in a corner ; often 
looking round, and saying with a nod of his green baize cap, and 
an encouraging elevation of his one eyebrow, " Hold up, my boy ! 
Hold up ! " There, too, is Mr. Jarndyce many a time, and Allan 
Woodcourt almost always; both thinking, much, how strangely 
Fate has entangled this rough outcast in the web of very diflferent 
lives. There, too, the trooper is a frequent visitor; filling the 
doorway with his athletic figure, and, from his superfluity of life 
and strength, seeming to shed down temporary vigour upon Jo, 
who never fails to speak more robustly in answer to his cheerful 
words. 

Jo is in a sleep or in a stupor to-day, and Allan Woodcourt, 
newly arrived, stands by him, looking down upon his wasted form. 
After a while, he softly seats himself upon the bedside with his 
face towards him — just as he sat in the law-writer's room — and 
touches his chest and heart. The cart had very nearly given up, 
but labours on a little more. 



BLEAK HOUSE. 601 

The trooper stands in the doorway, still and silent. Phil has 
stopped in a low clinking noise, with his little hammer in his hand. ' 
Mr. Woodcourt looks round with that grave professional interest 
and attention on his face, and, glancing significantly at the trooper, 
signs to Phil to carry his table out. When the little hammer is 
next used, there will be a speck of rust upon it. 

" Well, Jo ! What is the matter 1 Don't be frightened." 

" I thought," says Jo, who has started, and is looking round, 
"I thought I was in Tom-all- Alone's agin. An't there nobody 
here but you, Mr. Woodcot ? " 

" Nobody." 

"And I an't took back to Tom-all- Alone's. Am I, sir?" 

" No." Jo closes his eyes, muttering, " I'm wery thankful." 

After watching him closely a little while, Allan puts his mouth 
very near his ear, and says to him in a low, distinct voice : 

" Jo ! Did you ever know a prayer 1 " 

" Never knowd nothink, sir." 

" Not so much as one short prayer ? " 

" No, sir. Nothink at all. Mr. Chadbands he wos a prayin 
wunst at Mr. Sangsby's and I heerd him, but he sounded as if he 
wos a speakin to his-self, and not to me. He pi'ayed a lot, but / 
couldn't make out nothink on it. Difterent times, there wos other 
genlmen come down Tom-all- Alone's a prayin, but they all mostly 
sed as the t'other wuns prayed wrong, and all mostly sounded 
to be a talking to theirselves, or a passing blame on the t'others, 
and not a talkin to us. We never knowd nothink. / never 
knowd what it wos all about." 

It takes him a long time to say this ; and few but an experienced 
and attentive listener could hear, or, hearing, understand him. 
After a short relapse into sleep or stupor, he makes, of a sudden, 
a strong effort to get out of bed. 

" Stay, Jo ! What now ? " 

"It's time for me to go to that there berryin ground, sir," he 
returns with a wild look. 

" Lie down, and tell me. What burying ground, Jo 1 " 

" Where they laid him as wos wery good to me, wery good to 
me indeed, he wos. It's time fur me to go down to that there 
berryin ground, sir, and ask to be put along with him. I wants 
to go there and be berried. He used fur to say to me, ' I am as 
poor as you to-day, Jo,' he ses. I wants to tell him that I am as 
poor as him now, and have come there to be laid along with him." 

" By-and-bye, Jo. By-and-bye." 

" Ah ! P'raps they wouldn't do it if I wos to go myself. But will 
you promise to have me took there, sir, and laid along with him 1 " 



602 BLEAK HOUSE. 

"I will, indeed." 

" Thankee, sir. Thankee, sir ! They'll have to get the key of 
the gate afore they can take me in, for it's alius locked. And 
there's a step there, as I used fur to clean with my broom. — It's 
turned wery dark, sir. Is there any light a comin ? " 

"It is coming fast, Jo." 

Fast. The cart is shaken all to pieces, and the rugged road is 
very near its end. 

" Jo, my poor fellow ! " 

" I hear you, sir, in the dark, but I'm a gropin — a gropin — let 
me catch hold of your hand." 

" Jo, can you say what I say 1 " 

"I'll say any think as you say, sir, for I knows it's good." 

"Our Father." 

" Our Father ! — yes, that's wery good, sir." 

"Which art in Heaven." 

" Art in Heaven — is the light a comin, sir ?" 

" It is close at hand. Hallowed be thy name ! " 

"Hallowedbe — thy — " 

The light is come upon the dark benighted way. Dead ! 

Dead, your Majesty. Dead, my lords and gentlemen. Dead, 
Right Reverends and Wrong Reverends of every order. Dead, 
men and women, born with Heavenly compassion in your hearts. 
And dying thus around us, every day. 



CHAPTER XLVIII. 

closing in. 

The place in Lincolnshire has shut its many eyes again, and the 
house in town is awake. In Lincolnshire, the Dedlocks of the 
past doze in their picture-frames, and the low wind murmurs 
through the long drawing-room as if they were breathing pretty 
regularly. In town, the Dedlocks of the present rattle in their fire- 
eyed carriages through the darkness of the night, and the Dedlock 
Mercuries with ashes (or hair-powder) on their heads, symptomatic 
of their great humility, loll away the drowsy mornings in the little 
windows of the hall. The fashionable world — tremendous orb, 
nearly five miles round — is in full swing, and the solar system 
works respectfully at its appointed distances. 

Where the throng is thickest, where the lights are brightest, 
where all the senses are ministered to with the greatest delicacy 
and refinement, Lady Dedlock is. From the shining heights she 



BLEAK HOUSE. 603 

has scaled and taken, she is never absent. Though the belief 
she of old reposed in herself, as one able to reserve whatsoever 
she would under her mantle of pride, is beaten down ; though she 
has no assurance that what she is to those around her, she will 
remain another day; it is not in her nature, when envious eyes are 
looking on, to yield or to droop. They say of her, that she has lately 
grown more handsome and more haughty. The debilitated cousin 
says of her that she's beauty nough — tsetup Shopofwomen — but 
rather larming kind — remindingmanfact — inconvenient woman 
— who ^vill getoutofbedandbawthstablishment — • Shakspeare. 

Mr. Tulkinghorn says nothing, looks nothing. Now, as hereto- 
fore, he is to be found in doorways of rooms, with his limp white 
cravat loosely twisted into its old-fashioned tie, receiving patronage 
from the Peerage and making no sign. Of all men he is still the 
last who might be supposed to have any influence upon my Lady. - 
Of all women she is still the last who might be supposed to have 
any dread of him. 

One thing has been much on her mind since their late interview 
in his turret-room at Chesney Wold. She is now decided, and 
prepared to throw it off. 

It is morning in the great world ; afternoon according to the 
little sun. The Mercuries, exhausted by looking out of window, 
are reposing in the hall ; and hang their heavy heads, the gorgeous 
creatures, like overblown sunflowers. Like them too, they seem 
to run to a deal of seed in their tags and trimmings. Sir Leicester, 
in the library, has fallen asleep for the good of the country, over 
the report of a Parliamentary committee. My Lady sits in the 
room in which she gave audience to the young man of the name of 
Guppy. Rosa is with her, and has been writing for her and read- 
ing to her. Rosa is now at work upon embroideiy, or some such 
pretty thing ; and as she bends her head over it, my Lady watches 
her in silence. Not for the first time to-day. 

" Rosa." 

The pretty village face looks brightly up. Then, seeing how 
serious my Lady is, looks puzzled and surprised. 

" See to the door. Is it shut ? " 

Yes. She goes to it and returns, and looks yet more surprised. 

" I am about to place confidence in you, child, for I know I may 
trust your attachment, if not your judgment. In what I am going 
to do, I will not disguise myself to you at least. But I confide in 
you. Say nothing to any one of what passes between us." 

The timid little beauty promises in all earnestness to be trust- 
worthy. 

" Do you know," Lady Dedlock asks her, signing to her to bring 



604 BLEAK HOUSE. 

her chair nearer ; "do you know, Rosa, that I am different to you 
from what I am to any one ? " 

" Yes, my Lady. Much kinder. But then I often think I know 
you as you really are." 

" You often think you know me as I really am ? Poor child, 
poor child ! " 

She says it with a kind of scorn — though not of Rosa — and 
sits brooding, looking dreamily at her. 

" Do you think, Rosa, you are any relief or comfort to me ? Do ' 
you suppose your being young and natural, and fond . of me and 
grateful to me, makes it any pleasure to me to have you near me ? " 

"I don't know, my Lady; I can scarcely hope so. But, with 
all my heart, I wish it was so." 

"It is so, little one." 

The pretty face is checked in its flush of pleasure, by the dark 
expression on the handsome face before it. It looks timidly for an 
explanation. 

" And if I were to say to-day. Go ! Leave me ! I should say 
what would give me great pain and disquiet, child, and what would 
leave me very solitary." 

" My Lady ! Have I offended you ? " j 

"In nothing. Come here." 

Rosa bends down on the footstool at my Lady's feet. My Lady, j 
with that motherly touch of the famous Ironmaster night, lays her 1 
hand upon her dark hair, and gently keeps it there. 

" I told you, Rosa, that I wished you to be happy, and that I 
would make you so if I could make anybody happy on this earth. 
I cannot. There are reasons now known to me, reasons in which 
you have no part, rendering it far better for you that you should 
not remain here. You must not remain here. I have determined 
that you shall not. I have written to the father of your lover, 
and he will be here to-day. All this I have done for your sake." 

The weeping girl covers her hand with kisses, and says what 
shall she do, what shall she do, when they are separated ! Her 
mistress kisses her on the cheek, and makes no other answer. 

" Now, be happy, child, under better circumstances. Be beloved, 
and happy ! " 

" Ah, my Lady, I have sometimes thought — forgive my being 
so free — that you are not happy." 

"I !" 

" Will you be more so, when you have sent me away ? Pray, 
pray, think again. Let me stay a little while ! " 

" I have said, my child, that what I do, I do for your sake, not 
my own. It is done. What I am towards you, Rosa, is what I 



BLEAK HOUSE. 606 

am now — not what I shall be a little while hence. Remember 
this, and keep my confidence. Do so much for my sake, and thus 
aU ends between us ! " 

She detaches herself from her simple-hearted companion, and 
leaves the room. Late in the afternoon, when she next appears 
upon the staircase, she is in her haughtiest and coldest state. As 
indifferent as if all passion, feeling, and interest, had been worn 
out in the earlier ages of the world, and had perished from its 
surface with its other departed monsters. 

Mercury has announced Mr. Rouncewell, which is the cause of 
her appearance. Mr. Rouncewell is not in the library ; but she 
repairs to the library. Sir Leicester is there, and she wishes to 
speak to him first. 

" Sir Leicester, I am desirous but you are engaged." 

dear no ! Not at all. Only Mr. Tulkinghorn. 

Always at hand. Haunting every place. No relief or security 
from him for a moment. 

" I beg your pardon, Lady Dedlock. Will you allow me to 
retire 1 " 

With a look that plainly says, " You know you have the power 
to remain if you will," she tells him it is not necessary, and moves 
towards a chair. Mr. Tulkinghorn brings it a little forward for 
her with his clumsy bow, and retires into a window opposite. 
Interposed between her and the fading light of day in the now 
quiet street, his shadow falls upon her, and he darkens all before 
her. Even so does he darken her life. 

It is a dull street, under the best conditions ; where the two 
long rows of houses stare at each other with that severity, that 
half a dozen of its greatest mansions seem to have been slowly 
stared into stone, rather than originally built in that material. It 
is a street of such dismal grandeur, so determined not to conde- 
scend to liveliness, that the doors and windows hold a gloomy state 
of their own in black paint and dust, and the echoing mews behind 
have a dry and massive appearance, as if they were reserved to 
stable the stone chargers of noble statues. Complicated garnish 
of iron-work entwines itself over the flights of steps in this awful 
street ; and, from these petrified bowers, extinguishers for obsolete 
flambeaux gasp at the upstart gas. Here and there a weak little 
iron hoop, through which bold boys aspire to throw their friends' 
caps (its only present use), retains its place among the rusty foliage, 
sacred to the memory of departed oil. Nay, even oil itself, yet 
lingering at long intervals in a little absurd glass pot, with a knob 
in the bottom like an oyster, blinks and sulks at newer lights every 
night, like its high and dry master in the House of Lords. 



606 BLEAK HOUSE. 

Therefore there is not much tlaat Lady Dedlock, seated in her 
chair, could wish to see through the window in which Mr. Tulkiug- 
horn stands. And yet — and yet — she sends a look in that direc- 
tion, as if it were her heart's desire to have that figure removed 
out of the way. 

Sir Leicester begs his Lady's pardon. She was about to say ? 

" Only that Mr. Rouncewell is here (he has called by my appoint- 
ment), and that we had better make an end of the question of that 
girl. I am tired to death of the matter." 

"What can I do — to — assist?" demands Sir Leicester, in some 
considerable doubt. 

" Let us see him here, and have done with it. Will you tell them 
to send him up ? " ; 

"Mr. Tulkinghorn be so good as to ring. Thank you. Re- 
quest," says Sir Leicester, to Mercury, not immediately remem- 
bering the business term, "request the iron gentleman to walk 
this way." 

Mercury departs in search of the iron gentleman, finds, and 
produces him. Sir Leicester receives that fermginous person, 
graciously. 

" I hope you are well, Mr. Rouncewell. Be seated. (My solic- 
itor, Mr. Tulkinghorn.) My Lady was desirous, Mr. Rouncewell," 
Sir Leicester skilfully transfers him with a solemn wave of his 
hand, " was desirous to speak with you. Hem ! " 

"I shall be very happy," returns the iron gentleman, "to give 
my best attention to anything Lady Dedlock does me the honour 
to say." 

As he turns towards her, he finds that the impression she makes 
upon him is less agreeable than on the former occasion. A distant 
supercilious air makes a cold atmosphere about her ; and there is 
nothing in her bearing, as there was before, to encourage openness. 

"Pray, sir," says Lady Dedlock, listlessly, "may I be allowed 
to inquire whether anything has passed between you and your son, 
respecting your son's fancy 1 " 

It is almost too troublesome to her languid eyes to bestow a 
look upon him, as she asks this question. 

" If my memory serves me. Lady Dedlock, I said, when I had 
the pleasure of seeing you before, that I should seriously advise 
my son to conquer that — fancy." The ironmaster repeats her 
expression with a little emphasis. 

" And did you ? " 

"0 ! of course I did." 

Sir Leicester gives a nod, approving and confirmatory. Very 
proper. The iron gentleman having said that he would do it, was 



BLEAK HOUSE. 607 

bound to do it. No difference in this respect between the base 
metals and the precious. Highly proper. 

" And pray has he done so ? " 

" Keally, Lady Dedlock, I cannot make you a definite reply. I 
fear not. Probably not yet. In our condition of life, we some- 
times couple an intention with our — our fancies, which renders 
them not altogether easy to throw off. I think it is rather our 
way to be in earnest." 

Sir Leicester has a misgiving that there may be a hidden Wat 
Tylerish meaning in this expression, and fumes a little. Mr. 
Rouncewell is perfectly good-humoured and polite ; but, within 
such limits, evidently adapts his tone to his reception. 

"Because," proceeds my Lady, "I have been thinking of the 
subject — which is tiresome to me." 

" I am very sorry, I am sure." 

" And also of what Sir Leicester said upon it, in which I quite 
concur;" Sir Leicester flattered; "and if you cannot give us the 
assurance that this fancy is at an end, I have come to the conclu- 
sion that the girl had better leave me." 

" I can give no such assurance, Lady Dedlock. Nothing of the 
kind." 

"Then she had better go." 

"Excuse me, my Lady," Sir Leicester considerately interposes, 
" but perhaps this may be doing an injuiy to the young woman, 
which she has not merited. Here is a young woman," says Sir 
Leicester, magnificently laying out the matter with his right hand, 
like a service of plate, " whose good fortune it is to have attracted 
the notice and favour of an eminent lady, and to live, under the 
protection of that eminent lady, surrounded by the various advan- 
tages which such a position confers, and which are unquestionably 
very great — ■ I believe unquestionably very great, sir — for a 
young woman in that station of life. The question then arises, 
should that young woman be deprived of these many advantages 
i and that good fortune, simply because she has ; " Sir Leicester, 
' with an apologetic but dignified inclination of his head towards the 
I ironmaster, winds up his sentence ; " has attracted the notice of 
: Mr. Rouncewell's son ? Now, has she deserved this punishment ? 
I Is this just towards her ? Is this our previous understanding 1 " 

" I beg your pardon," interposes Mr. Rouncewell's son's father. 
" Sir Leicester, will you allow me ? I think I may shorten the 
subject. Pray dismiss that from your consideration. If you re- 
membered anything so important — which is not to be expected — 
you would recollect that my first thought in the affair was directly 
opposed to her remaining here." 



608 BLEAK HOUSE. 

Dismiss the Dedloek patronage from consideration ? ! Sir 
Leicester is bound to believe a pair of ears that have been handed 
down to him through such a family, or he really might have mis- 
trusted their report of the iron gentleman's observations. 

" It is not necessary," observes my Lady, in her coldest manner, 
before he can do anything but breathe amazedly, " to enter into 
these matters on either side. The girl is a very good girl ; I have 
nothing whatever to say against her ; but she is so far insensible 
to her many advantages and her good fortune, that she is in 
love — or supposes she is, poor little fool — and unable to appre- 
ciate them." 

Sir Leicester begs to observe, that wholly alters the case. He 
might have been sure that my Lady had the best grounds and 
reasons in support of her view. He entirely agrees with my Lady. 
The young woman had better go. 

" As Sir Leicester observed, Mr. Rouncewell, on the last occasion 
when we were fatigued by this business," Lady Dedloek languidly 
proceeds, "we cannot make conditions with you. Without con-, 
ditions, and under present circumstances, the girl is quite misplaced 
here, and had better go. I have told her so. Would you wish to . 
have her sent back to the village, or would you like to take her 
with you, or what would you prefer ? " . ^ 

" Lady Dedloek, if I may speak plainly " j 

"By all means." 

" — I should prefer the course which will the soonest relieve 
you of the incumbrance, and remove her from her present 
position." 

" And to speak as plainly," she returns, with the same studied 
carelessness, " so should I. Do I understand that you will take her 
with you?" 

The iron gentleman makes an iron bow. 

" Sir Leicester, will you ring ? " Mr. Tulkinghom steps forward 
from his window and pulls the bell. " I had forgotten you. 
Thank you." He makes his usual bow, and goes quietly back 
again. Mercury, swift-responsive, appears, receives instructions 
whom to produce, skims away, produces the aforesaid, and departs. 

Rosa has been crying, and is yet in distress. On ..her coming in, 
the ironmaster leaves his chair, takes her arm in his, and remains 
with her near the door ready to depart. 

"You are taken charge of, you see," says my Lady, in her 
weary manner, "and are going away, well protected. I have 
mentioned that you are a very good girl, and you have nothing to 
cry for." 

"She seems after all," observes Mr. Tulkinghorn, loitering a 



BLEAK HOUSE. 609 

little forward with his hands behind him, "as if she were crying 
at going away." 

" Why, she is not well-bred, you see," returns Mr. Rouncewell 
with some quickness in his manner, as if he were glad to have the 
lawyer to retort upon ; " and she is an inexperienced little thing, 
and knows no better. If she had remained here, sir, she would 
have improved, no doubt." 

"No doubt," is Mr. Tulkinghorn's composed reply. 
Rosa sobs out that she is very sorry to leave my Lady, and that 
she was happy at Chesney Wold, and has been happy with my 
Lady, and that she thanks my Lady over and over again. " Out, 
you silly little puss ! " says the ironmaster, checking her in a low 
voice, though not angrily ; " have a spirit, if you're fond of Wat ! " 
My Lady merely waves her off with indiflference, saying, " There, 
there, child ! You are a good girl. Go away ! " Sir Leicester 
has magnificently disengaged himself from the subject, and retired 
into the sanctuary of his blue coat. Mr. Tulkfoghorn, an indistinct 
form against the dark street now dotted with lamps, looms in my 
Lady's view, bigger and blacker than before. 

" Sir Leicester and Lady Dedlock," says Mr. Rouncewell, after 
a pause of a few moments, " I beg to take my leave, with an 
apology for having again troubled you, though not of my own act, 
on this tiresome subject. I can very well understand, I assure 
you, how tiresome so small a matter must have become to Lady 
Dedlock. If I am doubtful of my dealing with it, it is only because 
I did not at first quietly exert my influence to take my young friend 
here away, without troubling you at all. But it appeared to me 
— I dare say magnifying the importarwe of the thing — that it was 
respectful to explain to you how the matter stood, and candid to 
consult your wishes and convenience. I hope you will excuse my 
want of acquaintance with the polite world." 
I Sir Leicester considers himself evoked out of the sanctuary by 
these remarks. "Mr. Rouncewell," he returns, "do not mention 
it. Justifications are unnecessary, I hope, on either side." 

" I am glad to hear it. Sir Leicester ; and if I may, by way of a 
• last word, levert to what I said before of my mother's long con- 
ji nection with the family, and the worth it bespeaks on both sides, I 
;• would point out this little instance here on my arm, who shows 

I herself so aff"ectionate and faithful in parting, and in whom my 

II mother, I dare say, has done something to awaken such feelings — 
■ though of course Lady Dedlock, by her heartfelt interest and her 
'. genial condescension, has done much more." 

If he mean this ironically, it may be truer than he thinks. He 
. points it, however, by no deviation from his straightforward man- 

2e 



610 BLEAK HOUSE. 

ner of speech, though in saying it he turns towards that part of 
the dim room where my Lady sits. Sir Leicester stands to return 
his parting salutation, Mr. Tulkinghorn again rings. Mercury takes 
another flight, and Mr. Rouncewell and Rosa leave the house. 

Then lights are brought in, discovering Mr. Tulkinghorn still 
standing in his window with his hands behind him, and my Lady 
still sitting with his figure before her, closing up her view of the 
night as well as of the day. She is very pale. Mr. Tulkinghorn 
observing it as she rises to retire, thinks, " Well she may be ! 
The power of this woman is astonishing. She has been acting a 
part the whole time." But he can act a part too — his one un- 
changing character — and as he holds the door open for this woman, 
fifty pairs of eyes, each fifty times sharper than Sir Leicester's pair, 
should find no flaw in him. 

Lady Dedlock dines alone in her own room to-day. Sir Leicester 
is whipped in to the rescue of the Doodle Party, and the discom- 
fiture of the Goodie Faction. Lady Dedlock asks, on sitting down 
to dinner, still deadly pale (and quite an illustration of the de- 
bilitated cousin's text), whether he is gone out? Yes. Whether 
Mr. Tulkinghorn is gone yet 1 No. Presently she asks again, is 
he gone yet ? No. What is he doing 1 Mercury thinks he is 
writing letters in the library. Would my Lady wish to see him 1 
Anything but that. 

But he wishes to see my Lady. Within a few more minutes, he , 
is reported as sending his respects, and could my Lady please to 
receive him for a word or two after her dinner ? My Lady will ' 
receive him now. He comes now, apologising for intruding, even 
by her permission, while she is at table. When they are alone, 
my Lady waves her hand to dispense with such mockeries. 

" What do you want, sir ? " 

" Why, Lady Dedlock," says the lawyer, taking a chair at a little 
distance from her, and slowly rubbing his rusty legs up and down, 
up and down, up and down ; " I am rather surprised by the course 
you have taken." 

"Indeed?" 

"Yes, decidedly. I was not prepared for it. I consider it a 
departure from our agreement and your promise. It puts us in a 
new position. Lady Dedlock. I feel myself under the necessity of 
saying that. I don't approve of it." 

He stops in his rubbing, and looks at her, with his hands on his 
knees. Imperturbable and unchangeable as he is, there is still an 
indefinable freedom in his manner, which is new, and which does 
not escape this woman's observation. 

"I do not quite understand you," 



BLEAK HOUSE. 611 

"0 yes you do, I think. I think you do. Come, come, Lady 
Dedlock, we must not fence and parry now. You know you like 
this girl." 

"Well, sir?" 

"And you know — and I know — that you have not sent her 
away for the reasons you have assigned, but for the purpose of 
separating her as much as possible from — excuse my mentioning 
it as a matter of business — any reproach and exposure that im- 
pend over yourself." 

" Well, sir ? " 

"Well, Lady Dedlock," returns the lawyer, crossing his legs and 
nursing the uppermost knee, "I object to that. I consider that a 
dangerous proceeding. I know it to be unnecessary, and calculated 
to awaken speculation, doubt, rumour, I don't know what, in the 
house. Besides, it is a violation of our agreement. You were to 
be exactly what you were before. Whereas, it must be evident to 
yourself, as it is to me, that you have been this evening very 
different from what you were before. Why, bless my soul. Lady 
Dedlock, transparently so ! " 

" If, sir," she begins, " in my knowledge of my secret — " But 
he interrupts her. 

" Now, Lady Dedlock, this is a matter of business, and in a 
matter of business the ground cannot be kept too clear. It is no 
longer your secret. Excuse me. That is just the mistake. It is 
my secret, in trust for Sir Leicester and the family. If it were 
your secret. Lady Dedlock, we should not be here, holding this 
conversation." 

" That is veiy true. If, in my knowledge of the secret, I do 
what I can to spare an innocent girl (especially, remembering your 
own reference to her when you told my story to the assembled guests 
at Chesney Wold) from the taint of my impending shame, I act 
upon a resolution I have taken. Nothing in the world, and no one 
in the world, could shake it, or could move me." This she says 
with great deliberation and distinctness, and with no more outward 
passion than himself. As for him, he methodically discusses his 
matter of business, as if she were any insensible instrument used 
in business. 

"Really? Then you see, Lady Dedlock," he returns, "you are 
not to be trusted. You have put the case in a perfectly plain way, 
and according to the literal fact ; and, that being the case, you are 
not to be trusted." 

" Perhaps you may remember that I expressed some anxiety on 
this same point, when we spoke at night at Chesney Wold ? " 

" Yes," says Mr. Tulkinghorn, coolly getting up and standing on 



612 BLEAK HOUSE. 

the hearth. " Yes. I recollect, Lady Dedlock, that you certainly 
referred to the girl ; but that was before we came to our arrange- 
ment, and both the letter and the spirit of our arrangement 
altogether precluded any action on your part, founded upon my 
discovery. There can be no doubt about that. As to sparing the 
girl, of what importance or value is she 1 Spare ! Lady Dedlock, 
here is a family name compromised. One might have supposed 
that the course was straight on — over everything, neither to the 
right nor to the left, regardless of all considerations in the way, 
sparing nothing, treading everything under foot." 

She has been looking at the table. She lifts up her eyes, and 
looks at him. There is a stern expression on her face, and a part 
of her lower lip is compressed under her teeth. " This woman 
understands me," Mr. Tulkinghorn thinks, as she lets her glance 
fall again. " She cannot be spared. Why should she spare others 1 " 

For a little while they are silent. Lady Dedlock has eaten no 
dinner, but has twice or thrice poured out water with a steady 
hand and drunk it. She rises from table, takes a lounging-chair, . 
and reclines in it, shading her face. There is nothing in her man- 
ner to express weakness or excite compassion. It is thoughtful, 
gloomy, concentrated. " This woman," thinks Mr. Tulkinghorn, 
standing on the hearth, again a dark object closing up her view, 
" is a study." 

He studies her at his leisure, not speaking for a time. She, too, 
studies something at her leisure. She is not the first to speak ; 
appearing indeed so unlikely to be so, though he stood there until 
midnight, that even he is driven upon breaking silence. 

" Lady Dedlock, the most disagreeable part of this business ! 
interview remains ; but it is business. Our agreement is broken. 
A lady of your sense "and strength of character will be prepared 
for my now declaring it void, and taking my own course." 

" I am quite prepared." 

Mr. Tulkinghorn inclines his head. "That is all I have to,- 
trouble you with, Lady Dedlock." , 

She stops him as he is moving out of the room, by asking,, 
" This is the notice I was to receive 1 I wish not to misapprehend/ 
you." '■ 

"Not exactly the notice you were to receive. Lady Dedlock, 
because the contemplated notice supposed the agreement to have 
been observed. But virtually the same, virtually the same. The 
difference is merely in a lawyer's mind." 

" You intend to give me no other notice ? " ] 

" You are right. No." 

" Do you contemplate undeceiving Sir Leicester to-night 1 " 



BLEAK HOUSE. 613 

" A home question ! " says Mr. Tulkinghorn, with a sHght 
smile, and cautiously shaking his head at the shaded face. " No, 
not to-night." 

" To-morrow 1 " 

"All things considered, I had better decline answering that 
question. Lady Dedlock. If I were to say I don't know when, 
exactly, you would not believe me, and it would answer no purpose. 
It may be to-morrow. I would rather say no more. You are pre- 
pared, and I hold out no expectations which circumstances might 
fail to justify. I wish you good evening." 

She removes her hand, turns her pale face towards him as he 
walks silently to the door, and stops him once again as he is about 
to open it. 

"Do you intend to remain in the house any time ? I heard you 
were writing in the library. Are you going to return there 1 " 

" Only for my hat. I am going home." 

She bows her eyes rather than her head, the movement is so 
slight and curious ; and he withdraws. Clear of the room, he 
looks at his watch, but is inclined to doubt it by a minute or there- 
abouts. There is a splendid clock upon the staircase, famous, as 
splendid clocks not often are, for its accuracy. "And what do 
you say," Mr. Tulkinghorn inquires, referring to it. "What do 
you say ? " 

If it said now, " Don't go home " ! What a famous clock, 
hereafter, if it said to-night of all the nights that it has counted 
off, to this old man of all the young and old men who have ever 
stood before it, " Don't go home " ! With its sharp clear bell, 
it strikes three-quarters after seven, and ticks on again. " Why, you 
are worse than I thought you," says Mr. Tulkinghorn, muttering 
reproof to his watch. "Two minutes wi'ong? At this rate you 
won't last my time." What a watch to return good for evil, if 
it ticked in answer "Don't go home " ! 

He passes out into the streets, and walks on, with his hands 
behind him, under the shadow of the lofty houses, many of whose 
mysteries, difficulties, mortgages, delicate affairs of aU kinds, are 
treasured u]} within his old black satin waistcoat. He is in the 
confidence of the very bricks and mortar. The high chimney-stacks 
telegraph family secrets to him. Yet there is not a voice in a 
mile of them to whisper "Don't go home ! " 

Through the stir and motion of the commoner streets ; through 
the roar and jar of many vehicles, many feet, many voices ; with 
the blazing shop-lights lighting him on, the west wind blowing him 
on, and the crowd pressing him on ; he is pitilessly urged upon 
his way, and nothing meets him, murmuring "Don't go home!" 



614 BLEAK HOUSE. 

Arrived at last in his dull room, to light his candles, and look 
round and up, and see the Roman pointing from the ceiling, there 
is no new significance in the Roman's hand to-night, or in the 
flutter of the attendant groupes, to give him the late warning, 
" Don't come here ! " 

It is a moonlight night ; but the moon, being past the full, is 
only now rising over the great wilderness of London. The stars 
are shining as they shone above the turret-leads at Chesney Wold. 
This woman, as he has of late been so accustomed to call her, looks 
out upon them. Her soul is turbulent within her ; she is sick at 
heart, and restless. The large rooms are too cramped and close. 
She cannot endure their restraint, and will walk alone in a 
neighbouring garden. 

Too capricious and imperious in all she does, to be the cause of 
much surprise in those about her as to anything she does, this 
woman, loosely mufiied, goes out into the moonlight. Mercury 
attends with the key. Having opened the garden gate, he delivers 
the key into his Lady's hand at her request, and is bidden to go 
back. She will walk there some time, to ease her aching head. 
She may be an hour ; she may be more. She needs no further 
escort. The gate shuts upon its spring with a clash, and he leaves \ 
her, passing on into the dark shade of some trees. j 

A fine night, and a bright large moon, and multitudes of stars, i 
Mr. Tulkinghorn, in repairing to his cellar, and in opening and| 
shutting those resounding doors, has to cross a little prison-like f 
yard. He looks up casually, thinking what a fine night, what a 
bright large moon, what multitudes of stars ! A quiet night, too. ; 

A very quiet night. When the moon shines very brilliantly, 
a solitude and stillness seem to proceed from her, that influence 
even crowded places full of life. Not only is it a still night on 
dusty high roads and on hill-summits, whence a wide expanse of 
country may be seen in repose, quieter and quieter as it spreads 
away into a fringe of trees against the sky, witli the grey ghost of 
a bloom upon them ; not only is it a still night in gardens and in 
woods, and on the river where the water-meadows are fresh and 
green, and the stream sparkles on among pleasant islands, mur- 
muring weirs, and whispering rushes ; not only does the stillness 
attend it as it flows where houses cluster thick, where many bridges 
are reflected in it, where wharves and shipping make it black and 
awful, where it winds from these disfigurements through marshes 
whose grim beacons stand like skeletons washed ashore, where it 
expands through the bolder region of rising grounds rich in corn- 
field, windmill and steeple, and where it mingles with the ever- 
heaving sea j not only is it a still night on the deep, and on the 



BLEAK HOUSE. 615 

shore where the watcher stands to see the ship with her spread 
wings cross the path of light that appears to be presented to only 
him ; but even on this stranger's wilderness of London there is 
some rest. Its steeples and towers, and its one great dome, grow 
more ethereal ; its smoky house-tops lose their grossness, in the 
pale effulgence ; the noises that arise from the streets are fewer 
and are softened, and the footsteps on the pavements pass more 
tranquilly away. In these fields of Mr. Tulkinghorn's inhabiting, 
where the shepherds play on Chancery pipes that have no stop, and 
keep their sheep in the fold by hook and by crook until they have 
shorn them exceeding close, every noise is merged, this moonlight 
night, into a distant ringing hum, as if the city were a vast glass, 
vibrating. 

What's that ? Who tired a gun or pistol ? Where was it '( 

The few foot-passengers start, stop, and stare about them. 
Some windows and doors are opened, and people come out to look. 
It was a loud report, and echoed and rattled heavily. It shook 
one house, or so a man says who was passing. It has aroused all 
the dogs in the neighbourhood, who bark vehemently. Terrified 
cats scamper across the road. While the dogs are yet barking and 
howling — there is one dog howling like a demon - — the church- 
clocks, as if they were startled too, begin to strike. The hum 
from the streets, likewise, seems to swell into a shout. But it is 
soon over. Before the last clock begins to strike ten, there is a 
lull. When it has ceased, the fine night, the bright large moon, 
and multitudes of stars, are left at peace again. 

Has Mr. Tulkinghorn been disturbed? His windows are dark 
and quiet, and his door is shut. It must be something unusual 
indeed, to bring hwi out of his shell. Nothing is heard of him, 
nothing is seen of him. What power of cannon might it take to 
shake that rusty old man out of his immovable composure ? 

For many years, the persistent Roman has been pointing, with 
no particular meaning, from that ceiling. It is not likely that he 
has any new meaning in him to-night. Once pointing, always 
pointing — like any Roman, or even Briton, with a single idea. 
There he is, no doubt, in his impossible attitude, pointing, unavail- 
ingly, all night long. Moonlight, darkness, dawn, sunrise, day. 
There he is still, eagerly pointing, and no one minds him. 

But, a little after the coming of the day, come people to clean 
the rooms. And either the Roman has some new meaning in him, 
not expressed before, or the foremost of them goes wild ; for, look- 
ing up at his outstretched hand, and looking down at what is below 
it, that person shrieks and flies. The others, looking in as the first 
one looked, shriek and fly too, and there is an alarm in the street. 



616 BLEAK HOUSE. 

What does it mean? No light is admitted into the darkened 
chamber, and people unaccustomed to it, enter, and treading softly, 
but heavily, carry a weight into the bed-room, and lay it down. \ 
There is whispering and wondering all day, strict search of every 
comer, careful tracing of steps, and careful noting of the disposition 
of every article of furniture. All eyes look up at the Roman, and 
all voices murmur, " If he could only tell what he saw ! " 

He is pointing at a table, with a bottle (nearly full of wine) and 
a glass upon it, and two candles that were blown out suddenly, soon 
after being lighted. He is pointing at an empty chair, and at a 
stain upon the ground before it that might be almost covered with 
a hand. These objects lie directly within his range. An excited 
imagination might suppose that there was something in them so 
terrific, as to drive the rest of the composition, not only the attend- 
ant big-legged boys, but the clouds and flowers and pillars too — 
in short, the very body and soul of Allegory, and all the brains it 
has — stark mad. It happens surely, that every one who comes 
into the darkened room and looks at these things, looks up at the 
Roman, and that he is invested in all eyes with mystery and awe, 
as if he were a paralysed dumb witness. 

So, it shall happen surely, through many years to come, that 
ghostly stories shall be told of the stain upon the floor, so easy to 
be covered, so hard to be got out ; and that the Roman, pointing 
from the ceiling, shall point, so long as dust and damp and 
spiders spare him, with far greater significance than he ever 
had in Mr. Tulkinghorn's time, and with a deadly meaning. For, 
Mr. "Tulkinghorn's time is over for evermore ; and the Roman 
pointed at the murderous hand uplifted against his life, and pointed 
helplessly at him, from night to morning, lying face downward on 
the floor, shot through' the heart. 



CHAPTER XLIX. » 

DUTIFUL FRIENDSHIP. '/ 

A GREAT annual occasion has come round in the establishment 
of Mr. Joseph Bagnet, otherwise Lignum Vitse, ex-artilleryman 
and present bassoon-player. An occasion of feasting and festival. , 
The celebration of a birthday in the family. 

It is not Mr. Bagnet's birthday. Mr. Bagnet merely distin-j 
guishes that epoch in the musical instmment business, by kissing) 
the children with an extra smack before breakfast, smoking an ' 
additional pipe after dinner, and wondering towards evening what 




A NEW MEANING IN THE ROMAN. 



618 BLEAK HOUSE. 

his poor old mother is thinking about it, — a subject of infinite 
speculation, and rendered so by his mother having departed this 
life, twenty years. Some men rarely revert to their father, but 
seem, in the bank-books of their remembrance, to have transferred all 
their stock of filial affection into their mother's name. Mr. Bagnet 
is one of these. Perhaps his exalted appreciation of the merits of 
the old girl, causes him usually to make the noun-substantive, 
Goodness, of the feminine gender. 

It is not the birthday of one of the three children. Those occa- 
sions are kept with some marks of distinction, but they rarely 
overleap the bounds of happy returns and a pudding. On young 
Woolwich's last birthday, Mr. Bagnet certainly did, after observing 
upon his growth and general advancement, proceed, in a moment 
of profound reflection on the changes wrought by time, to examine 
him in the catechism ; accomplishing with extreme accuracy the 
questions number one and two, What is your name 1 and Who gave. 
you that name ? but there failing in the exact precision of his mem- 
ory, and substituting for number three, the question And how do^ 
you like that name? which he propounded with a sense of its 
importance, in itself so edifying and improving, as to give ii|! 
quite an orthodox air. This, however, was a speciality on thatf 
particular birthday, and not a generic solemnity. 

It is the old girl's birthday ; and that is the greatest holiday 
and reddest-letter day in Mr. Bagnet's calendar. The auspicious 
event is always commemorated according to certain forms, settled 
and prescribed by Mr. Bagnet some years since. Mr. Bagnet 
being deeply convinced that to have a pair of fowls for dinner is to 
attain the highest pitch of imperial luxury, invariably goes forth 
himself very early in- the morning of this day to buy a pair ; he 
is, as invariably, taken in by the vendor, and installed in the 
possession of the oldest inhabitants of any coop in Europe. 
Returning with these triumphs of toughness tied up in a clean 
blue and white cotton handkerchief (essential to the arrangements), 
he in a casual manner invites Mrs. Bagnet to declare at breakfast 
what she would like for dinner. Mrs. Bagnet, by a coincidence 
never known to fail, replying Fowls, Mr. Bagnet instantly produces 
his bundle from a place of concealment, amidst general amazement 
and rejoicing. He further requires that the old girl shall do noth- 
ing all day long, but sit in her very best gown, and be served by 
himself and the young people. As he is not illustrious for his 
cookery, this may be supposed to be a matter of state rather than 
enjoyment on the old girl's part ; but she keeps her state with all 
imaginable cheerfulness. 

On this present birthday, Mr. Bagnet has accomplished the 



BLEAK HOUSE. 619 

usual preliminaries. He has bought two specimens of poultry, 
which, if there be any truth in adages, were certainly not caught 
with chaff, to be prepared for the spit ; he has amazed and rejoiced 
the family by their unlooked-for production ; he is himself directing 
the roasting of the poultry ; and Mrs. Bagnet, with her wholesome 
brown fingers itching to prevent what she sees going wrong, sits in 
her gown of ceremony, an honoured guest. 

Quebec and Malta lay the cloth for dinner, while Woolwich, 
serving, as beseems him, under his father, keeps the fowls revolving. 
To these young scullions Mrs. Bagnet occasionally imparts a wink, 
or a shake of the head, or a crooked face, as they make mistakes. 

"At half-after one." Says Mr. Bagnet. "To the minute. 
They'll be done." 

Mrs. Bagnet, with anguish, beholds one of them at a stand-still 
before the fire, and beginning to burn. 

" You shall have a dinner, old girl," says Mr. Bagnet. " Fit 
for a queen." 

Mrs. Bagnet shows her white teeth cheerfully, but to the per- 
ception of her son betrays so much uneasiness of spirit, that he is 
impelled by the dictates of affection to ask her, with his eyes, 
what is the matter? — thus standing, with his eyes wide open, 
more oblivious of the fowls than before, and not affording the 
least hope of a return to consciousness. Fortunately, his eldest 
sister perceives the cause of the agitation in Mrs. Bagnet's breast, 
and with an admonitory poke recalls him. The stopped fowls 
going round again, Mrs. Bagnet closes her eyes, in the intensity 
of her relief. 

"George will look us up," says Mr. Bagnet. "At half-after 
four. To the moment. How many years, old girl. Has George 
looked us up. This afternoon 1 " 

"Ah, Lignum, Lignum, as many as make an old woman of a 

I young one, I begin to think. Just about that, and no less," 
returns Mrs. Bagnet, laughing, and shaking her head. 

"Old girl," says Mr. Bagnet. "Never mind. You'd be as 

( young as ever you was. If you wasn't younger. Which you are. 

1; As everybody knows." 

Quebec and Malta here exclaim, with clapping of hands, that 

I Bluffy is sure to bring mother something, and begin to speculate 

[■ on what it will be. 

I "Do you know, Lignum," says Mrs. Bagnet, casting a glance 

1 on the table-cloth, and winking " salt ! " at Malta with her right 

'j eye, and shaking the pepper away from Quebec with her head ; 
" I begin to think George is in the roving way again." 

I "George," returns Mr. Bagnet, "will never desert. And leave 
his old comrade. In the lurch. Don't be afraid of it." 



620 BLEAK HOUSE. 

"No, Lignum. No. I don't say he will. I don't think he 
will. But if he could get over this money-trouble of his, I believe 
he would be off." 

Mr. Bagnet asks why 1 

"Well," returns his wife, considering, "George seems to me to 
be getting not a little impatient and restless. I don't say but 
what he's as free as ever. Of course he must be free, or he wouldn't 
be George ; but he smarts, and seems put out." 

"He's extra-drilled," says Mr. Bagnet. "By a lawyer. Who 
would put the devil out." 

"There's something in that," his wife assents; "but so it is. 
Lignum." 

Further conversation is prevented, for the time, by the necessity ■ 
under which Mr. Bagnet finds himself of directing the whole force 
of his mind to the dinner, which is a little endangered by the dry 
humour of the fowls in not yielding any gravy, and also by the 
made-gravy acquiring no flavour, and turning out of a flaxen com- 
plexion. With a similar perverseness, the potatoes crumble off" 
forks in the process of peeling, upheaving from their centres in 
every direction, as if they were subject to earthquakes. The legs 
of the fowls, too, are longer than could be desired, and extremely 
scaly. Overcoming these disadvantages to the best of his ability, 
Mr. Bagnet at last dishes, and they sit down at table ; Mrs. Bagnet 
occupying the guest's place at his right hand. 

It is well for the old girl that she has but one birthday in a year, 
for two such indulgences in poultry might be injurious. Every 
kind of finer tendon and ligament that it is in the nature of poultry 
to possess, is developed in these specimens in the singular form of 
guitar-strings. Their .limbs appear to have struck roots into their 
breasts and bodies, as aged trees strike roots into the earth. Their 
legs are so hard, as to encourage the idea that they must have de- 
voted the greater part of their long and arduous lives to pedestrian 
exercises, and the walking of matches. But Llr. Bagnet, uncon-* 
scious of these little defects, sets his heart on Mrs. Bagnet eating a; 
most severe quantity of the delicacies before her ; and as that good; 
old girl would not cause him a moment's disappointment on any 
day, least of all on such a day, for any consideration, she imperils 
her digestion fearfully. How young Woolwich cleans the drum- 
sticks without being of ostrich descent, his anxious mother is at a' 
loss to understand. 

The old girl has another trial to undergo after the conclusion of 
the repast, in sitting in state to see the room cleared, the hearth 
swept, and the dinner-service washed up and polished in the back 
yard. The great delight and energy with which the two young 



BLEAK HOUSE. 621 

ladies apply themselves to these duties, turning up their skirts in 
imitation of their mother, and skating in and out on little scaffolds 
of pattens, inspire the highest hopes for the future, but some anxiety 
for the present. The same causes lead to a confusion of tongues, a 
clattering of crockery, a rattling of tin mugs, a whisking of brooms, 
and an expenditure of water, all in excess ; while the saturation of 
the young ladies themselves is almost too moving a spectacle for 
Mrs. Bagnet to look upon, with the calmness proper to her position. 
At last the various cleansing processes are triumphantly completed ; 
Quebec and Malta appear in fresh attire, smiling and dry ; pipes, 
tobacco, and something to drink, are placed upon the table ; and 
the old girl enjoys the first peace of mind she ever knows on the 
day of this delightful entertainment. 

When Mr. Bagnet takes his usual seat, the hands of the clock 
are very near to half-past four ; as they mark it accurately, Mr. 
Bagnet announces, 

" George ! Military time." 

It is George ; and he has hearty congratulations for the old girl 
(whom he kisses on the great occasion), and for the children, and 
for Mr. Bagnet. " Happy returns to all ! " says Mr. George. 

" But, George, old man ! ". cries Mrs. Bagnet, looking at him 
curiously. " What's come to you ? " 

" Come to me ? " 

"Ah ! you are so white, George — for you — and look so shocked. 
Now don't he, Lignum ? " 

"George," says Mr. Bagnet, "tell the old girl. What's the 
matter." 

" I didn't know I looked white," says the trooper, passing his 
hand over his brow, "and I didn't know I looked shocked, and I'm 
sorry I do. But the truth is, that boy who was taken in at my 
place died yesterday afternoon, and it has rather knocked me over." 

" Poor creetur ! " says Mrs. Bagnet, with a mother's pity. " Is 
he gone 1 Dear, dear ! " 

" I didn't mean to say anything about it, for it's not birthday 
talk, but you have got it out of me, you see, before I sit down. I 
should have roused up in a minute," says the trooper, making him- 
self speak more gaily, "but you're so quick, Mrs. Bagnet." 

" You're right ! The old girl," says Mr. Bagnet. " Is as quick. 
As powder." 

" And what's more, she's the subject of the day, and we'll stick 
to her," cries Mr. George. " See here, I have brought a little 
brooch along with me. It's a poor thing, you know, but it's a 
keepsake. That's all the good it is, Mrs. Bagnet." 

Mr. George produces his present, which is greeted with admiring 



622 , BLEAK HOUSE. 

leapings and clappings by the young family, and with a species of 
reverential admiration by Mr. Bagnet. " Old girl," says Mr. Bag- 
net. " Tell him my opinion of it." 

" Why, it's a wonder, George ! " Mrs. Bagnet exclaims. " It's 
the beautifuUest thing that ever was seen ! " 

" Good ! " says Mr. Bagnet. " My opinion." 

"It's so pretty, George," cries Mrs. Bagnet, turning it on aU 
sides, and holding it out at arm's length, " that it seems too choice 
for me." 

" Bad ! " says Mr. Bagnet. " Not my opinion." 

"But whatever it is, a hundred thousand thanks, old fellow," 
says Mrs. Bagnet, her eyes sparkling with pleasure, and her hand 
stretched out to him; "and though I have been a cross-grained 
soldier's wife to you sometimes, George, we are as strong friends I 
am sure, in reality, as ever can be. Now you shall fasten it on 
yourself, for good luck, if you will, George." 

The children close up to see it done, and Mr. Bagnet looks over 
young Woolwich's head to see it done, with an interest so maturely 
wooden, yet so pleasantly childish, that Mrs. Bagnet cannot help 
laughing in her airy way, and saying, " Lignum, Lignum, what 
a precious old chap you are ! " But the trooper fails to fasten the 
brooch. His hand shakes, he is nervous, and it falls off. " Would 
any one believe this ? " says he, catching it as it drops, and looking 
round. " I am so out of sorts that I bungle at an easy job like 
this ! " 

Mrs. Bagnet concludes that for such a case there is no remedy 
like a pipe ; and fastening the brooch herself in a twinkling, causes 
the trooper to be inducted into his usual snug place, and the pipes 
to be got into action. "If that don't bring you round, George," 
says she, "just throw your eye across here at your present now and 
then, and the two together micst do it." 

" You ought to do it of yourself," George answers ; " I know that 
very well, Mrs. Bagnet. I'll tell you how, one way and another, 
the blues have got to be too many for me. Here was this poor lad. 
'Twas dull work to see him dying as he did, and not be able to 
help him." 

" What do you mean, George ? You did help him. You took 
him under your roof" 

"I helped him so far, but that's little. I mean, Mrs. Bagnet, 
there he was, dying without ever having been taught much more 
than to know his right hand from his left. And he was too far 
gone to be helped out of that." 

"Ah, poor creetur ! " says Mrs. Bagnet. 

"Then," says the trooper, not yet lighting his pipe, and passing 



BLEAK HOUSE. 623 

his heavy hand over his hair, " that brought up Gridley in a man's 
mind. His was a bad case too, in a different way. Then the two 
got mixed up in a man's mind with a flinty old rascal who had to 
do with both. And to think of that rusty carbine, stock and 
barrel, standing up on end in his corner, hard, indifl'erent, taking 
everything so evenly — it made flesh and blood tingle, I do assure 
you." 

" My advice to you," returns Mrs. Bagnet, "is to light your pipe, 
and tingle that way. It's wholesomer and comfortabler, and better 
for the health altogether." 

" You're right," says the trooper, " and I'll do it ! " 

So, he does it : though still with an indignant gravity that im- 
presses the young Bagnets, and even causes Mr. Bagnet to defer 
the ceremony of drinking Mrs. Bagnet's health ; always given by 
himself, on these occasions, in a speech of exemplary terseness. 
But the young ladies having composed what Mr. Bagnet is in the 
habit of calling " the mixtur," and George's pipe being now in a 
glow, Mr. Bagnet considers it his duty to proceed to the toast of 
the evening. He addresses the assembled company in the following 
terms. 

" George. Woolwich. Quebec. Malta. This is her birthday. 
Take a day's march. And you won't find such another. Here's 
towards her ! " 

The toast having been drunk with enthusiasm, Mrs. Bagnet re- 
turns thanks in a neat address of corresponding brevity. This 
model composition is limited to the three words "And wishing 
yours ! " which the old girl follows up with a nod at everybody in 
succession, and a well regulated swig of the mixture. This she 
again follows up, on the present occasion, by the wholly unexpected 
exclamation, " Here's a man ! " 

Here is a man, much to the astonishment of the little company, 
looking in at the parlour door. He is a sharp-eyed man — a quick 
keen man — and he takes in everybody's look at him, all at once, 
individually and collectively, in a manner that stamps him a remark- 
able man. 

" George," says the man, nodding, "how do you find yourself?" 

" Why, it's Bucket ! " cries Mr. George. 

" Yes," says the man, coming in and closing the door. " I was 
going down the street here, when I happened to stop and look in 
at the musical instruments in the shop window — a friend of mine 
is in wants of a second-hand wiolinceller, of a good tone — and I 
saw a party enjoying themselves, and I thought it was you in the 
corner ; I thought I couldn't be mistaken. How goes the world 
with you, George, at the present moment ? Pretty smooth ? And 



S24 BLEAK HOUSE. 

with you, ma'am 1 And with you, governor ? And Lord ! " says 
Mr. Bucket, opening his arms, " here's children too ! You may do 
anything with me, if you only show me children. Give us a kiss, 
my pets. No occasion to inquire who i/our father and mother is. 
Never saw such a likeness in my life ! " 

Mr. Bucket, not unwelcome, has sat himself down next to Mr. 
George, and taken Quebec and Malta on his knees. " You pretty 
dears," says Mr. Bucket, "give us another kiss ; it's the only thing 
I'm greedy in. Lord bless you, how healthy you look ! And what 
may be the ages of these two, ma'am 1 I should put 'em down at 
the figures of about eight and ten." 

"You're very near, sir," says Mrs. Bagnet. 

"I generally am near," returns Mr. Bucket, "being so fond of 
children. A friend of mine has had nineteen of 'em, ma'am, all by 
one mother, and she's still as fresh and rosy as the morning. Not 
so much so as yourself, but, upon my soul, she comes near you ! 
And what do you call these, my darling 1 " pursues Mr. Bucket, 
pinching Malta's cheek. " These are peaches, these are. Bless 
your heart ! And what do you think about father 1 Do you think 
father could recommend a second-hand wiolinceller of a good tone 
for Mr. Bucket's friend, my dear ? My name's Bucket. Ain't that 
a funny name 1 " 

These blandishments have entirely won the family heart. Mrs. 
Bagnet forgets the day to the extent of filling a pipe and a glass 
for Mr. Bucket, and waiting upon him hospitably. She would be 
glad to receive so pleasant a character under any circumstances, but 
she tells him that as a friend of George's she is particularly glad to 
see him this evening, for George has not been in his usual spirits. 

"Not in his usual spirits?" exclaims Mr. Bucket. "Why, I 
never heard of such a tiling ! What's the matter, George 1 You 
don't intend to tell me you've been out of spirits. What should 
you be out of spirits for ? You haven't got anything on your mind, 
you know." 

" Nothing particular," returns the trooper. 

"/ should think not," rejoins Mr. Bucket. "What could you 
have on your mind, you know ! And have these pets got anything 
on their minds, eh ? Not they ; but they'll be upon the minds of 
some of the young fellows, some of these days, and make 'em 
precious low-spirited. I ain't much of a prophet, but I can tell 
you that, ma'am." 

Mrs. Bagnet, quite charmed, hopes Mr. Bucket has a family of 
his own. 

" There, ma'am ! " says Mr. Bucket. " Would you believe it ? 
No, I haven't. My wife, and a lodger, constitute my family. Mrs. 



/^ 




2s 



626 BLEAK HOUSE. 

Bucket is as fond of children as myself, and as wishftd to have 'em ; 
but no. So it is. Worldly goods are divided unequally, and man 
must not repine. What a very nice back yard, ma'am ! Any way 
out of that yard, now ? " 

There is no way out of that yard. 

" Ain't there really 1 " says Mr. Bucket. " I should have 
thought there might have been. Well, I don't know as I ever 
saw a back yard that took my fancy more. Would you allow 
me to look at it? Thank you. No, I see there's no way out. 
But what a very good-proportioned yard it is ! " 

Having cast his sharp eye all about it, Mr. Bucket returns to 
his chair next his friend Mr. George, and pats Mr. George affec- 
tionately on the shoulder. 

" How are your spirits, now, George ? " 

"All right now," returns the trooper. 

" That's your sort ! " says Mr. Bucket. " Why should you ever 
have been otherwise ? A man of your fine figure and constitution 
has no right to be out of spirits. That ain't a chest to be out of 
spirits, is it, ma'am ? And you haven't got anything on your mind, 
you know, George ; what could you have on your mind ! " 

Somewhat harping on this phrase, considering the extent and 
variety of his conversational powers, Mr. Bucket twice or thrice 
repeats it to the pipe he lights, and with a listening face that is 
particularly his own. But the sun of his sociality soon recovers 
from this brief eclipse, and shines again. 

" And this is brother, is it, my dears ? " says Mr. Bucket, 
referring to Quebec and Malta for information on the subject of 
young Woolwich. " And a nice brother he is — half brother I 
mean to say. For he's too old to be your boy, ma'am." 

" I can certify at all events that he is not anybody else's," returns 
Mrs. Bagnet, laughing. 

" Well, you do surprise me ! Yet he's like you, there's no deny- 
ing. Lord, he's wonderfully like you ! But about what you 
may call the brow, you know, there his father comes out ! " 
Mr. Bucket compares the faces with one eye shut up, while 
Mr. Bagnet smokes in stolid satisfaction. 

This is an opportunity for Mrs. Bagnet to inform him, that the 
boy is George's godson. 

" George's godson, is he 1 " rejoins Mr. Bucket, with extreme 
cordiality. " I must shake hands over again with George's god- 
son. Godfather and godson do credit to one another. And what 
do you intend to make of him, ma'am ? Does he show any turn 
for any musical instrument 1 " 

Mr, Bagnet suddenly interposes, " Plays the Fife. Beautiful." 



BLEAK HOUSE. 627 

"Would you believe it, governor," says Mr. Bucket, struck by 
the coincidence, "that when I was a boy I played the fife myself? 
Not in a scientific way, as I expect he does, but by ear. Lord 
bless you ! British Grenadiers — there's a tune to warm an English- 
man up ! Could you give us British Gfenadiers, my fine fellow 1 " 

Nothing could be more acceptable to the little circle than this 
call upon young Woolwich, who immediately fetches his fife 
and performs the stirring melody : during which performance 
Mr. Bucket, much enlivened, beats time, and never fails to come 
in sharp with the burden, " Brit Ish Gra-a-anadeers ! " In short, 
he shows so much musical taste, that Mr. Bagnet actually takes 
his pipe from his lips to express his conviction that he is a singer. 
Mr. Bucket receives the harmonious impeachment so modestly : 
confessing how that he did once chaunt a little, for the expression 
of the feelings of his own bosom, and with no presumptuous idea of 
entertaining his friends : that he is asked to sing. Not to be 
behindhand in the sociality of the evening, he complies, and gives 
them " Believe me if all those endearing young charms." This 
ballad, he informs Mrs. Bagnet, he considers to have been his most 
powerful ally in moving the heart of Mrs. Bucket when a maiden, 
and inducing her to approach the altar — Mr. Bucket's own words 
are, to come up to the scratch. 

This sparkling stranger is such a new and agreeable feature in 
the evening, that Mr. George, who testified no great emotions of 
pleasure on his entrance, begins, in spite of himself, to be rather 
proud of him. He is so friendly, is a man of so many resources, 
and so easy to get on with, that it is something to have made him 
known there. Mr. Bagnet becomes, after another pipe, so sensible 
of the value of his acquaintance, that he solicits the honour of his 
company on the old girl's next birthday. If anything can more 
closely cement and consolidate the esteem which Mr. Bucket has 
formed for the family, it is the discovery of the nature of the 
occasion. He drinks to Mrs. Bagnet with a warmth approaching to 
rapture, engages himself for that day twelvemonth more than thank- 
fully, makes a memorandum of the day in a large black pocket- 
book with a girdle to it, and breathes a hope that Mrs. Bucket 
and Mrs. Bagnet may before then become, in a manner, sisters. 
As he says himself, what is public life without private ties 1 He 
is in his humble way a public man, but it is not in that sphere 
that he finds happiness. No, it must be sought within the confines 
of domestic bliss. 

It is natural, under these circumstances, that he, in his turn, 
should remember the friend to whom he is indebted for so promis- 
ing an acquaintance. And he does. He keeps very close to him. 



628 BLEAK HOUSE. 

Whatever the subject of the conversation, he keeps a tender eye 
upon him. He waits to walk home with him. He is interested in 
his very boots ; and observes even them attentively, as Mr. George 
sits smoking cross-legged in the chimney corner. 

At length, Mr. George rises to depart. At the same moment 
Mr. Bucket, with the secret sympathy of friendship, also rises. 
He dotes upon the children to the last, and remembers the com- 
mission he has undertaken for an absent friend. 

" Respecting that second-hand wiolinceller, governor — could you 
recommend me such a thing 1 " 

"Scores," says Mr. Bagnet. 

"I am obliged to you," returns Mr. Bucket, squeezing his hand. 
" You're a friend in need. A good tone, mind you ! My friend is 
a regular dab at it. Ecod, he saws away at Mo-zart and Handel, 
and the rest of the big-wigs, like a thorough workman. And you 
needn't," says Mr. Bucket, in a considerate and private voice, " you 
needn't commit yourself to too low a figure, governor. I don't 
want to pay too large a price for my friend ; but I want you to 
have your proper percentage, and be remunerated for your loss 
of time. That is but fair. Every man must live, and ovight 
to it." 

Mr. Bagnet shakes his head at the old girl, to the effect that 
they have found a jewel of price. 

" Suppose I was to give you a look in, say at half arter ten to- 
morrow morning. Perhaps you could name the figures of a few 
wiolincellers of a good tone 1 " says Mr. Bucket. 

Nothing easier. Mr. and Mrs. Bagnet both engage to have the 
requisite information ready, and even hint to each other at the 
practicability of having. a small stock collected there for approval. 

"Thank you," says Mr. Bucket, "thank you. Good night, 
ma'am. Good night, governor. Good night, darlings. I am much 
obliged to you for one of the pleasantest evenings I ever spent in 
my life." 

They, on the contrary, are much obliged to him for the pleasure 
he has given them in his company ; and so they part with many 
expressions of good- will on both sides. " Now, George, old boy," 
says Mr. Bucket, taking his arm at the shop door, " come along ! " 
As they go down the little street, and the Bagnets pause for a 
minute looking after them, Mrs. Bagnet remarks to the worthy 
Lignum that Mr. Bucket " almost clings to George like, and seems 
to be really fond of him." 

The neighbouring streets being narrow and ill paved, it is a little 
inconvenient to walk there two abreast and arm in arm. Mr. 
George therefore soon proposes to walk singly. But Mr. Bucket, 



BLEAK HOUSE. 629 

who cannot make up his mind to relinquish his friendly hold, 
replies, " Wait half a minute, George. I should wish to speak to 
you first." Immediately afterwards, he twists him into a public- 
house and into a parlour, where he confronts him, and claps his 
own back against the door. 

"Now, George," says Mr. Bucket. "Duty is duty, and friend- 
ship is friendship. I never want the two to clash, if I can help it. 
I have endeavoured to make things pleasant to-night, and I put it 
to you whether I have done it or not. You must consider yourself 
in custody, George." 

" Custody 1 What for 1 " returns the trooper, thunderstruck. 

"Now, George," says Mr. Bucket, urging a sensible view of the 
case upon him with his fat forefinger, " duty, as you know very 
well, is one thing, and conversation is another. It's my duty to 
inform you that any observations you may make will be liable to 
be used against you. Therefore, George, be careful what you say. 
You don't happen to have heard of a murder ? " 

" Murder ! " 

" Now, George," says Mr. Bucket, keeping his forefinger in an 
impressive state of action, "bear in mind what I've said to you. I 
ask you nothing. You've been in low spirits this afternoon. I 
say, you don't happen to have heard of a murder 1 " 

" No. Where has there been a murder? " 

"Now, George," says Mr. Bucket, "don't you go and commit 
yourself I'm a going to tell you what I want you for. There 
has been a murder in Lincoln's Inn Fields — gentleman of the 
name of Tulkinghorn. He was shot last night. I want you for 
that." 

The trooper sinks upon a seat behind him, and great drops start 
out upon his forehead, and a deadly pallor overspreads his face. 

" Bucket ! It's not possible that Mr. Tulkinghorn has been 
killed, and that you suspect me ? " 

"George," returns Mr. Bucket, keeping his forefinger going, "it 
is certainly possible, because it's the case. This deed was done 
last night at ten o'clock. Now, you know where you were last 
night at ten o'clock, and you'll be able to prove it, no doubt." 

" Last night ? Last night ? " repeats the trooper, thoughtfully. 
Then it flashes upon him. " Why, great Heaven, I was there, last 
night ! " 

"So I have understood, George," returns Mr. Bucket, with great 
deliberation. " So I have understood. Likewise you've been very 
often there. You've been seen hanging about the place, and you've 
been heard more than once in a wrangle with him, and it's possible 
— I don't say it's certainly so, mind you, but it's possible — that 



630 BLEAK HOUSE. 

he may have been heard to call you a threatening, murdering, dan- 
gerous fellow." 

The trooper gasps as if he would admit it all, if he could speak. 

" Now, George," continues Mr. Bucket, putting his hat upon the 
table, with an air of business rather in the upholstery way than 
otherwise, " My wish is, as it has been all the evening, to make 
things pleasant. I tell you plainly there's a reward out, of a hun- 
dred guineas, offered by Sir Leicester Dedlock, Baronet. You and 
me have always been pleasant together ; but I have got a duty to 
discharge ; and if that hundred guineas is to be made, it may as 
well be made by me as by another man. On all of which accounts, 
I should hope it was clear to you that I must have you, and that 
I'm damned if I don't have you. Am I to call in any assistance, 
or is the trick done 1 " 

Mr. George has recovered himself, and stands up like a soldier. 
" Come," he says ; " I am ready." 

" George," continues Mr. Bucket, " wait a bit ! " With his 
upholsterer manner, as if the trooper were a window to be fitted 
up, he takes from his pocket a pair of handcuffs. " This is a 
serious charge, George, and such is my duty." 

The trooper flushes angrily, and hesitates a moment ; but holds 
out his two hands, clasped together, and says, " There ! Put them 
on!" 

Mr. Bucket adjusts them in a moment. " How do you find 
them? Are they comfortable? If not, say so, for I wish to 
make things as pleasant as is consistent with my duty, and I've 
got another pair in my pocket." This remark he offers like a most 
respectable tradesman, anxious to execute an order neatly, and to 
the perfect satisfaction of his customer. " They'll do as they are ? 
Very well ! Now you see, George ; " he takes a cloak from a 
corner, and begins adjusting it about the trooper's neck ; " I was 
mindful of your feelings when I come out, and brought this on 
purpose. There ! Who's the wiser ? " 

"Only I," returns the trooper; "but, as I know it, do me one 
more good turn, and pull my hat over my eyes." 

"Really, though ! Do you mean it ? Ain't it a pity ? It looks 
so." 

"I can't look chance men in the face with these things on," 
Mr. George hurriedly replies. " Do, for God's sake, pull my hat 
forward." 

So strongly entreated, Mr. Bucket complies, puts his own hat 
on, and conducts his prize into the streets ; the trooper marching 
on as steadily as usual, though with his head less erect ; and Mr. 
Bucket steering him with his elbow over the crossings and up the 
turnings. 



BLEAK HOUSE. 631 

CHAPTER L. 
Esther's narrative. 

It happened that when I came home from Deal, I found a note 
from Caddy Jellyby (as we always continued to call her), inform- 
ing me that her health, which had been for some time very delicate, 
was worse, and that she would be more glad than she could tell 
me if I would go to see her. It was a note of a few lines, writ- 
ten from the couch on which she lay, and inclosed to me in another 
from her husband, in which he seconded her entreaty with much 
solicitude. Caddy was now the mother, and I the godmother, of 
such a poor little baby — such a tiny old-faced mite, with a counte- 
nance that seemed to be scarcely anything but cap-border, and a 
little, lean, long-fingered hand, always clenched under its chin. It 
would lie in this attitude all day, with its bright specks of eyes 
open, wondering (as I used to imagine) how it came to be so small 
and weak. Whenever it was moved, it cried ; but at all other 
times it was so patient, that the sole desire of its life appeared 
to be, to lie quiet and think. It had curious little dark veins in 
its face, and curious little dark marks under its eyes, like faint 
remembrances of poor Caddy's inky days ; and altogether, to those 
who were not used to it, it was quite a piteous little sight. 

But it was enough for Caddy that she was used to it. The 
projects with which she beguiled her illness, for little Esther's 
education, and little Esther's marriage, and even for her own old 
age as the grandmother of little Esther's little Esthers, were so 
prettily expressive of devotion to this pride of her life, that I 
should be tempted to recall some of them, but for the timely 
remembrance that I am getting on irregularly as it is. 

To return to the letter. Caddy had a superstition about me, 
which had been strengthening in her mind ever since that night 
long ago, when she had lain asleep with her head in my lap. She 
almost — - 1 think I must say quite — believed that I did her 
good whenever I was near her. Now, although this was such a 
fancy of the affectionate girl's, that I am almost ashamed to mention 
it, still it might have all the force of a fact when she was really ill. 
Therefore I set off to Caddy, with my Guardian's consent, post- 
haste ; and she and Prince made so much of me, that there never 
was anything like it. 

Next day I went again to sit with her, and next day I went 
again. It was a very easy journey ; for I had only to rise a little 
earlier in the morning, and keep my accounts, and attend to house- 
keeping matters before leaving home. But when I had made 



632 BLEAK HOUSE. 

these three i^isits, my Guardian said to me, on my return at 
night : 

" Now, little woman, little woman, this will never do. Con- 
stant dropping will wear away a stone, and constant coaching will 
wear out a Dame Durden. We will go to London for a while, 
and take possession of our old lodgings." 

"Not for me, dear Guardian," said I, "for I never feel tired;" 
which was strictly true. I was only too happy to be in such 
request. 

"For me then," returned my Guardian; "or for Ada, or for 
both of us. It is somebody's birthday to-morrow, I think;" 

" Truly I think it is," said I, kissing my darling, who would be 
twenty-one to-morrow. 

"Well," observed my Guardian, half pleasantly, half seriously, 
"that's a great occasion, and will give my fair cousin some neces- 
sary business to transact in assertion of her independence, and will 
make London a more convenient place for all of us. So to London 
we will go. That being settled, there is another thing, — how 
have you left Caddy 1 " 

" Veiy unwell. Guardian. I fear it will be some time before 
she regains her health and strength." 

"What do you call some time, now?" asked my Guardian, 
thoughtfully. 

" Some weeks, I am afraid." 

" Ah ! " He began to walk about the room with his hands in 
his pockets, showing that he had been thinking as much. " Now 
what do you say about her doctor ? Is he a good doctor, my love ? " 

I felt obliged to confess that I knew nothing to the contrary ; 
but that Prince and I had agreed only that evening, that we 
would like his opinion to be confirmed by some one. 

"Well, you know!" returned my Guardian, quickly, "there's 
Woodcourt." 

I had not meant that, and was rather taken by surprise. For 
a moment, all that I had had in my mind in connection with Mr. 
Woodcourt seemed to come back and confuse me. 

" You don't object to him, little woman ? " 

" Object to him. Guardian ? Oh no ! " 

" And you don't think the patient would object to him ? " 

So far from that, I had no doiibt of her being prepared to have 
a great reliance on him, and to like him very much. I said that 
he was no stranger to her personally, for she had seen him often 
in his kind attendance on Miss Flite." 

"Very good," said my Guardian. "He has been here to-day, 
my dear, and I will see him about it to-morrow." 



BLEAK HOUSE. 633 

I felt, in this short conversation — though I did not know how, 
for she was quiet, and we interchanged no look — that my dear 
girl well remembered how merrily she had clasped me round the 
waist, when no other hands than Caddy's had brought me the little 
parting token. This caused me to feel that I ought to tell her, 
and Caddy too, that I was going to be the mistress of Bleak House ; 
and that if I avoided that disclosure any longer, I might become 
less worthy in my own eyes of its master^s love. Therefore, when 
we went up-stairs, and had waited listening until the clocks struck 
twelve, in order that only I might be the first to wish my darling 
, all good wishes on her birthday, and to take her to my heart, I set 
before her, just as I had set before myself, the goodness and honour 
of her cousin John, and the happy life that was in store for me. 
If ever my darling were fonder of me at one time than at another 
in all our intercourse, she was surely fondest of me that night. 
And I was so rejoiced to know it, and so comforted by the sense 
of having done right in casting this last idle reservation away, that 
I was ten times happier than I had been before. I had scarcely 
thought it a reservation a few hours ago ; but now that it was 
gone, I felt as if I understood its nature better. 

Next day we went to London. We found our old lodging 
vacant, and in half an hour were quietly established there, as if we 
had never gone away. Mr. Woodcourt dined with us, to celebrate 
my darling's birthday ; and we were as pleasant as we could be 
with the great blank among us that Richard's absence naturally 
made on such an occasion. After that day I was for some weeks 
— eight or nine as I remember — very much with Caddy ; and 
thus it fell out that I saw less of Ada at this time than any other 
since we had first come together, except the time of my own illness. 
She often came to Caddy's ; but our function there was to amuse 
and cheer her, and we did not talk in our usual confidential man- 
ner. Whenever I went home at night, we were together ; but 
Caddy's rest was broken by pain, and I often remained to nurse her. 

With her husband and her poor little mite of a baby to love, 
and their home to strive for, what a good creature Caddy was ! 
So self-denying, so uncomplaining, so anxious to get well on their 
account, so afraid of giving trouble, and so thoughtful of the un- 
assisted labours of her husband and the comforts of old Mr. Turvey- 
drop ; I had never known the best of her until now. And it 
seemed so curious that her pale face and helpless figure should be 
lying there day after day, where dancing was the business of life ; 
where the kit and the apprentices began early every morning in 
the ball-room, and where the untidy little boy waltzed by himself 
in the kitchen all the afternoon. 



k 



634 BLEAK HOUSE. 

At Caddy's request, I took the supreme direction of her apart- 
ment, trimmed it up, and pushed her, couch and all, into a lighter 
and more airy and more cheerful corner than she had yet occupied ; 
then, every day, when we were in our neatest array, I used to lay 
my small small namesake in her arms, and sit down to chat or 
work, or read to her. It was at one of the first of these quiet 
times that I told Caddy about Bleak House. 

We had other visitors besides Ada. First of all, we had Prince, 
who in his hurried intervals of teaching used to come softly in and 
sit softly down, with a face of loving anxiety for Caddy and the 
very little child. Whatever Caddy's condition really was, she never 
failed to declare to Prince that she was all but well — which I, 
Heaven forgive me, never failed to confirm. This would put Prince 
in such good spirits, that he would sometimes take the kit from his 
pocket and play a chord or two to astonish the baby — which I 
never knew it to do in the least degree, for my tiny namesake 
never noticed it at all. 

Then there was Mrs. Jellyby. She would come occasionally, 
with her usual distraught manner, and sit calmly looking miles be- 
yond her grandchild, as if her attention were absorbed by a young 
Borrioboolan on its native shores. As bright-eyed as ever, as serene, 
and as untidy, she would say, "Well, Caddy, child, and how do 
you do to-day 1 " And then would sit amiably smiling, and taking 
no notice of the reply ; or would sweetly glide oft' into a calculation 
of the number of letters she had lately received and answered, or 
of the coffee-bearing power of Borrioboola Gha. This she would 
always do with a serene contempt for our limited sphere of action, 
not to be disguised. 

Then there was old Mr. Turveydrop, who was from morning to 
night and from night to morning the subject of innumerable precau- 
tions. If the baby cried, it was nearly stifled lest the noise should 
make him uncomfortable. If the fire wanted stirring in the night, it 
was surreptitiously done lest his rest should be broken. If Caddy re- 
quired any little comfort that the house contained, she first carefully 
discussed whether he was likely to require it too. In return for 
this consideration, he would come into the room once a day, all but 
blessing it — showing a condescension, and a patronage, and a grace 
of manner, in dispensing the light of his high-shouldered presence, 
from which I might have supposed him (if I had not known better) 
to have been the benefactor of Caddy's life. 

"My Caroline," he would say, making the nearest approach that 
he could to bending over her. " Tell me that you are better 
to-day." 

"0 much better, thank you, Mr. Turveydrop," Caddy would 
reply. 



BLEAK HOUSE. 635 

" Delighted ! Enchanted ! And our dear Miss Summerson. She 
is not quite prostrated by fatigue 1 " Here he would crease up his 
eyelids, and kiss his fingers to me ; though I am happy to say he 
had ceased to be particular in his attentions, since •! had been so 
altered. 

" Not at all," I would assure him. 

" Charming ! We must take care of our dear Caroline, Miss 
Summerson. We must spare nothing that will restore her. We 
must nourish her. My dear Caroline ; " he would turn to his 
daughter-in-law with infinite generosity and protection ; " want for 
nothing, my love. Frame a wish and gratify it, my daughter. Every- 
thing this house contains, everything my room contains, is at your 
service, my dear. Do not," he would sometimes add, in a burst of 
Deportment, " even allow my simple requirements to be considered, 
if they should at any time interfere with your own, my Caroline. 
Your necessities are greater than mine." 

He had established such a long prescriptive right to this Deport- 
ment (his son's inheritance from his mother), that I several times 
knew both Caddy and her husband to be melted to tears by these 
affectionate self-sacrifices. 

" Nay, my dears," he would remonstrate ; and when I saw 
Caddy's thin arm about his fat neck as he said it, I would be 
melted too, though not by the same process ; " Nay, nay ! I have 
promised never to leave ye. Be dutiful and afiectionate towards 
me, and I ask no otiier return, Now, bless ye ! I am going to the 
Park." 

He would take the air there, presently, and get an appetite for 
his hotel dinner. I hope I do old Mr. Turveydrop no wi'ong ; but 
I never saw any better traits in him than these I faithfully record, 
except that he certainly conceived a liking for Peepy, and would 
take the child out walking with great pomp — always, on those 
occasions, sending him home before he went to dinner himself, and 
occasionally with a halfpenny in his pocket. But, even this dis- 
interestedness was attended with no inconsiderable cost, to my 
knowledge ; for before Peepy was sufficiently decorated to walk 
hand in hand with the professor of Deportment, he had to be newly 
dressed, at the expense of Caddy and her husband, from top to toe. 

Last of our visitors, there was Mr. Jellyby. Really when he 
used to come in of an evening, and ask Caddy in his meek voice 
how she was, and then sit down with his head against the wall, 
and make no attempt to say anything more, I liked him very much. 
If he found me bustling about, doing any little thing, he sometimes 
half took his coat off, as if with an intention of helping by a great 
exertion ; but he never got any further. His sole occupation was 



636 BLEAK HOUSE. 

to sit with his head against the wall, looking hard at the thought- 
ful baby ; and I could not quite divest my mind of a fancy that 
they understood one another. 

I have not counted Mr. Woodcourt among our visitors, because 
he was now Caddy's regular attendant. She soon began to improve 
under his care ; but he was so gentle, so skilful, so unwearying in 
the pains he took, that it is not to be wondered at, I am sure. I 
saw a good deal of Mr. Woodcourt during this time, though not 
so much as might be supposed ; for, knowing Caddy to be safe in 
his hands, I often slipped home at about the hours when he was 
expected. We frequently met, notwithstanding. I was quite rec- 
onciled to myself now ; but I still felt glad to think that he was soriy 
for me, and he still was sorry for me I believed. He helped Mr. 
Badger in his professional engagements, which were numerous ; 
and had as yet no settled projects for the future. 

It was when Caddy began to recover, that I began to notice a 
change in my dear girl. I cannot say how it first presented itself 
to me ; because I observed it in many slight particulars, which were 
nothing in themselves, and only became something when they were 
pieced together. But I made it out, by putting them together, that 
Ada was not so frankly cheerful with me as she used to be. Her 
tenderness for me was as loving and true as ever ; I did not for a 
moment doubt that ; but there was a quiet sorrow about her which 
she did not confide to me, and in which I traced some hidden 
regret. 

Now I could not understand this ; and I was so anxious for the 
happiness of my own pet, that it caused me some uneasiness, and 
set me thinking often. At length, feeling sure that Ada suppressed 
this something from me, lest it should make me unhappy too, it . 
came into my head that she was a little grieved — for me — by 
what I had told her about Bleak House. 

How I persuaded myself that this was likely, I don't know. I 
had no idea that there was any selfish reference in my doing so. 
I was not grieved for myself: I was quite contented and quite '^ 
happy. Still, that Ada might be thinking — for me, though I ' 
had abandoned all such thoughts — of what once was, but was now 
all changed, seemed so easy to believe, that I believed it. 

What could I do to reassure my darling (I considered then) and 
show her that I had no such feelings ? Well ! I could only be as i 
brisk and busy as possible ; and that, I had tried to be all along. } 
However, as Caddy's illness had certainly interfered, more or less, ' 
with my home duties ^ — though I had always been there in the 
morning to make my Guardian's breakfast, and he had a hundred 
times laughed, and said there must be two little women, for his lit- 



BLEAK HOUSE. 637 

tie woman was never missing — I resolved to be doubly diligent 
and gay. So I went about the house, humming all the tunes I 
knew ; and I sat working and working in a desperate manner, and 
I talked and talked, morning, noon, and night. 

And still there was the same shade between me and my darling. 

" So, Dame Trot," observed my Guardian, shutting up his book, 
one night when we were all three together ; "so, Woodcourt has 
restored Caddy Jellyby to the fuU enjoyment of life again ? " 

"Yes," I said ; "and to be repaid by such gratitude as hers, is 
to be made rich. Guardian." 

"I wish it was," he returned, "with all my heart." 

So did I too, for that matter. I said so. 

" Aye ! We would make him as rich as a Jew, if we knew how. 
Would we not, little woman ? " 

I laughed as I worked, and replied that I was not sure about 
that, for it might spoil him, and he might not be so useful, and 
there might be many who could ill spare him. As, Miss Flite, and 
Caddy herself, and many others. 

"True," said my Guardian. "I had forgotten that. But we 
would agree to make him rich enough to live, I suppose 1 Rich 
enough to work with tolerable peace of mind ? Rich enough to 
have his own happy home, and his own household gods — and house- 
hold goddess, too, perhaps 1 " 

That was quite another thing, I said. We must all agree in that. 

"To be sure," said my Guardian. "All of us. I have a great 
regard for Woodcourt, a high esteem for him ; and I have been 
sounding him delicately about his plans. It is difficult to offer aid 
to an independent man, with that just kind of pride which he pos- 
sesses. And yet I would be glad to do it if I might, or if I knew 
how. He seems half inclined for another voyage. But that appears 
like casting such a man away." 

" It might open a new world to him," said I. 

" So it might, little woman," my Guardian assented. "1 doubt 
I if he expects much of the old world. Do you know I have fancied 
I that he sometimes feels some particular disappointment, or misfort- 
1 une, encountered in it. You never heard of anything of that sort ? " 

I shook my head. 

" Humph," said my Guardian. " I am mistaken, I dare say." 

As there was a little pause here, which I thought, for my dear 
girl's satisfaction, had better be filled up, I hummed an air as I 
worked which was a favourite with my Guardian. 

"And do you think Mr. Woodcourt will make another voyage?" 
I asked him, when I had hummed it quietly all through. 

" I don't quite know what to think, my dear, but I should say 



638 BLEAK HOUSE. 

it was likely at present that he will give a long trial to another 
country." 

"I am sure he will take the best wishes of all our hearts with 
him wherever he goes," said I; "and though they are not riches, 
he will never be the poorer for them, Guardian, at least." 

" Never, little woman," he replied. 

I was sitting in my usual place, which was now beside my Guar- 
dian's chair. That had not been my usual place before the letter, 
but it was now. I looked up at Ada, who was sitting opposite ; 
and I saw, as she looked at me, that her eyes were filled with tears, 
and that tears were falling down her face. I felt that I had only 
to be placid and merry, once for all to undeceive my dear, and set 
her loving heart at rest. I really was so, and I had nothing to do 
but to be myself. 

So I made my sweet girl lean upon my shoulder — how little 
thinking what was heavy on her mind ! — and I said she was not 
quite well, and put my arm about her, and took her up-stairs. 
When we were in our own room, and when she might perhaps 
have told me what I was so unprepared to hear, I gave her no en- 
couragement to confide in me ; I never thought she stood in need 
of it. 

"0 my dear good Esther," said Ada, "if I could only make up 
my mind to speak to you and my cousin John, when you are 
together ! " 

" Why, my love ! " I remonstrated. " Ada ! why should you 
not speak to us ? " 

Ada only drooped her head and pressed me closer to her heart. 

"You surely don't forget, my beauty," said I, smiling, "what 
quiet old-fashioned people we are, and how I have settled down to 
be the discreetest of dames 1 You don't forget how happily and 
peacefully my life is all marked out for me, and by whom ? I am 
certain that you don't forget by what a noble character, Ada. 
That can never be." 

" No, never, Esther." 

"Why, then, my dear," said I, "there can be nothing amiss — 
and why should you not speak to us ! " 

" Nothing amiss, Esther 1 " returned Ada. " when I think 
of all these years, and of his fatherly care and kindness, 
the old relations among us, and of you, what shall 
shall I do ! " 

I looked at my child in some wonder, but I thought it better^ 
not to answer, otherwise than by cheering her ; and so I turned oflF 
into many little recollections of our life together, and prevented' 
her from saying more. When she lay down to sleep, and not 



hen 1 thmk 
ness, and ofj 
I do, whatl 



BLEAK HOUSE. 639 

before, I returned to my Guardian to say good night ; and then I 
came back to Ada, and sat near her for a little while. 

She was asleep, and I thought as I looked at her that she was 
a little changed. I had thought so, more than once lately. I 
could not decide, even looking at her while she was unconscious, 
how she was changed ; but something in the familiar beauty of 
her face looked dift'erent to me. My Guardian's old hopes of her 
and Richard arose sorrowfully in my mind, and I said to myself, 
"she has been anxious about him," and I wondered how that love 
would end. 

When I had come home from Caddy's while she was ill, I had 
often found Ada at work, and she had always put her work away, 
and I had never known what it was. Some of it now lay in a 
drawer near her, which was not quite closed. I did not open the 
drawer ; but I still rather wondered what the work could be, for 
it was evidently nothing for herself. 

And I noticed as I kissed my dear, that she lay with one hand 
under her pUlow so that it was hidden. 

How much less amiable I must have been than they thought 
me, how much less amiable than I thought myself, to be so pre- 
occupied with my own cheerfulness and contentment, as to think 
that it only rested with me to put my dear girl right, and set her 
mind at peace ! 

But I lay down, self-deceived, in that belief And I awoke in 
it next day, to find that there was still the same shade between 
me and my darling. 

CHAPTER LI. 

ENLIGHTENED. 

When Mr. Woodcourt arrived in London, he went, that very 
same day, to Mr. Vholes's in Symond's Inn. For he never once, 
from the moment when I entreated him to be a friend to Richard, 
neglected or forgot his promise. He had told me that he accepted the 
charge as a sacred trust, and he was ever true to it in that spirit. 

He found Mr. Vholes in his office, and informed Mr. Vholes of 
his agreement with Richard, that he should call there to learn his 
address. 

"Just so, sir," said Mr. Vholes. "Mr. C's address is not a 
hundred miles from here, sir, Mr. C's address is not a hundred 
miles from here. Would you take a seat, sir." 

Mr. Woodcourt thanked Mr. Vholes, but he had no business 
' with him beyond what he had mentioned. 



640 BLEAK HOUSE. 

"Just so, sir. I believe, sir," said Mr. Vholes, still quietly 
insisting on the seat by not giving the address, " that you have 
influence with Mr. C. Indeed I am aware that you have." 

"I was not aware of it myself," returned Mr. Woodcourt ; "but 
I suppose you know best." 

"Sir," rejoined Mr. Vholes, self-contained, as usual, voice and 
all, "it is a part of my professional duty to know best. It is a 
part of my professional duty, to study and to understand a gentle- 
man who confides his interests to me. In my professional duty I 
shall not be wanting, sir, if I know it. I may, with the best 
intentions, be wanting in it without knowing it; but not if I 
know it, sir." 

Mr. Woodcourt again mentioned the address. 

"Give me leave, sir," said Mr. Vholes. "Bear with me for a 
moment. Sir, Mr. C is playing for a considerable stake, and can- 
not play without — need I say what ? " 

" Money, I presume ? " 

" Sir," said Mr. Vholes, " to be honest with you (honesty being 
my golden rule, whether I gain by it or lose, and I find that I 
generally lose), money is the word. Now, sir, upon the chances 
of Mr. C's game I express to you no opinion, no opinion. It 
might be highly impolitic in Mr. C, after playing so long and so 
high, to leave off; it might be the reverse. I say nothing. No, 
sir," said Mr. Vholes, bringing his hand flat down upon his desk, 
in a positive manner, " nothing." 

" You seem to forget," returned Mr. Woodcourt, " that I ask 
you to say nothing, and have no interest in anything you say." 

" Pardon me, sir ! " retorted Mr. Vholes, " you do yourself an 
injustice. No, sir ! Pardon me ! You shall not — shall not in 
my ofiice, if I know it — do yourself an injustice. You are inter- 
ested in anything, and in everything, that relates to your friend. 
I know human nature much better, sir, than to admit for an in- 
stant that a gentleman of your appearance is not interested in* 
whatever concerns his friend." 

"Well," replied Mr. Woodcourt, " that may be. I am particu-' 
larly interested in his address." 

"(The number, sir,") said Mr. Vholes, parenthetically, ("I be- 
lieve I have already mentioned.) If Mr. C is to continue to play 
for this considerable stake, sir, he must have funds. Understand 
me ! There are funds in hand at present. I ask for nothing ; 
there are funds in hand. But, for the onward play, more funds 
must be provided ; unless Mr. C is to throw away what he has 
already ventured — which is wholly and solely a point for his con- 
sideration. This, sir, I take the opportunity of stating openly 



BLEAK HOUSE. 641 

t.0 you, as the friend of Mr. C. Without funds, I shall always 
be happy to appear and act for Mr. C, to the extent of all such 
costs as are safe to be allowed out of the estate : not beyond that. 
I could not go beyond that, sir, without wronging some one. I 
must either wrong my three dear girls ; or my venerable father, 
who is entirely dependent on me — in the Vale of Taunton ; or 
some one. Whereas, sir, my resolution is (call it weakness or folly 
if you please) to wrong no one." 

Mr. Woodcourt rather sternly rejoined that he was glad to hear 
it. 

"I wish, sir," said Mr. Vholes, "to leave a good name behind 
me. Therefore, I take every opportunity of openly stating to a 
friend of Mr. C, how Mr. is situated. As to myself, sir, the 
labourer is worthy of his hire. If I undertake to put my shoulder 
to the wheel, I do it, and I earn what I get. I am here for that 
purpose. My name is painted on the door outside, with that 
object." 

" And Mr. Carstone's address, Mr. Vholes 1 " 

"Sir," returned Mr. Vholes, "as I believe I have already men- 
tioned, it is next door. On the second story you will find Mr. C's 
apartments. Mr. C desires to be near his professional adviser; 
and I am far from objecting, for I court inquiry." 

Upon this, Mr. Woodcourt wished Mr. Vholes good day, and 
went in search of Richard, the change in whose appearance he 
began to understand now but too well. 

He found him in a dull room, fadedly furnished ; much as I had 
found him in his barrack-room but a little while before, except 
that he was not writing, but was sitting with a book before him, 
from which his eyes and thoughts were far astray. As the door 
chanced to be standing open, Mr. Woodcourt was in his presence 
for some moments without being perceived ; and he told me that 
he never could forget the haggardness of his face, and the dejection 
of his manner, before he was aroused from his dream. 

"Woodcourt, my dear fellow ! " cried Richard, starting up with 
extended hands, "you come upon my vision like a ghost." 

"A friendly one," he replied, "and only waiting, as they say 
ghosts do, to be addressed. How does the mortal world go?" 
They were seated now, near together. 

"Badly enough, and slowly enough," said Richard; "speaking 
at least for my part of it." 

" What part is that ? " 

" The Chancery part." 

"I never heard," returned Mr. Woodcourt, shaking his head, 
" of its going well yet." 

2t 



642 BLEAK HOUSE. 

" Nor I," said Richard, moodily. " Who ever did 1 " 

He brightened again in a moment, and said, with his natural 
openness : 

"Woodcourt, I should be sorry to be misunderstood by you, 
even if I gained by it in your estimation. You must know that 
I have done no good this long time. I have not intended to do 
much harm, but I seem to have been capable of nothing else. It 
may be that I should have done better by keeping out of the net 
into which my destiny has worked me ; but I think not, though 
I dare say you will soon hear, if you have not already heard, a 
very different opinion. To make short of a long story, I am afraid 
I have wanted an object ; but I have an object now — or it has 
me — and it is too late to discuss it. Take me as I am, and 
make the best of me." 

"A bargain," said Mr. Woodcourt. "Do as much by me in 
return." 

"Oh! You," returned Richard, "you can pursue your art for 
its own sake ; and can put your hand upon the plough, and never 
turn ; and can strike a purpose out of anything. You, and I, are 
very different creatures." 

He spoke regretfully, and lapsed for a moment into his weary 
condition. 

"Well, well !" he cried, shaking it off, "everything has an end. 
We shall see ! So you will take me as I am, and make the best 
of me?" 

"Aye ! indeed I will." They shook hands upon it laughingly, 
but in deep earnestness. I can answer, for one of them, with 
my heart of hearts. 

"You come as a godsend," said Richard, "for I have seen no- 
body here yet but Vholes. Woodcourt, there is one subject I 
should like to mention, for once and for all, in the beginning of our ; 
treaty. You can hardly make the best of me if I don't. You 
know, I dare say, that I have an attachment to my cousin Ada 1 " ^ 

Mr. Woodcourt replied that I had hinted as much to him. ,' 

" Now pray," returned Richard, " don't think me a heap of i 
selfishness. Don't suppose that I am splitting my head and half 
breaking my heart over this miserable Chancery suit, for my own 
rights and interests alone. Ada's are bound up with mine ; they 
can't be separated ; Vholes works for both of us. Do think of '" i 
that ! " I 

He was so very solicitous on this head, that Mr. Woodcourt 
gave him the strongest assurances that he did him no injustice. 

"You see," said Richard, with something pathetic in his manner 
of lingering on the point, though it was off-hand and unstudied, 



BLEAK HOUSE. 643 

" to an upright fellow like you, bringing a friendly face like yours 
here, I cannot bear the thought of appearing selfish and mean. I 
want to see Ada righted, Woodcourt, as well as myself; I want to 
do my utmost to right her, as well as myself; I venture what I can 
scrape together to extricate her, as well as myself. Do, I beseech 
you, think of that ! " 

Afterwards, when Mr. Woodcourt came to reflect on what had 
passed, he was so very much impressed by the strength of Richard's 
anxiety on this point, that in telling me generally of his first visit 
to Symond's Inn, he particularly dwelt upon it. It revived a fear 
I had had before, that my dear girl's little property would be 
absorbed by Mr. Vholes, and that Richard's justification to himself 
would be sincerely this. It was just as I began to take care of 
Caddy, that the interview took place, and I now return to the 
time when Caddy had recovered, and the shade was still between 
me and my darling. 

I proposed to Ada, that morning, that we should go and see 
Richard. It a little surprised me to find that she hesitated, and 
was not so radiantly willing as I had expected. 

" My dear," said I, "you have not had any difference with Rich- 
ard since I have been so much away 1 " 

"No, Esther." 

" Not heard of him, perhaps 1 " said I. 

" Yes, I have heard of him," said Ada. 

Such tears in her eyes, and such love in her face. I could not 
make my darling out. Should I go to Richard's by myself, I said ? 

No, Ada thought I had better not go by myself. Would she go 
with me 1 Yes, Ada thought she had better go with me. Should 
we go now 1 Yes, let us go now. WeU, I could not understand 
my darling, with the tears in her eyes and the love in her face ! 

We were soon equipped, and went out. It was a sombre day, 
and drops of chill rain fell at intervals. It was one of those colour- 
less days when everything looks heavy and harsh. The houses 
frowned at us, the dust rose at us, the smoke swooped at us, noth- 
ing made any compromise about itself, or wore a softened aspect. 
I fancied my beautiful girl quite out of place in the mgged streets ; 
and I thought there were more funerals passing along the dismal 
pavements, than I had ever seen before. 

We had first to find out Symond's Inn. We were going to in- 
quire in a shop, when Ada said she thought it was near Chancery 
Lane. " We are not likely to be far out, my love, if we go in that 
direction," said I. So to Chancery Lane we went ; and there, sure 
enough, we saw it written up. Symond's Inn. 

We had next to find out the number. " Or Mr. Vholes's office 



644 BLEAK HOUSE. 

will do," I recollected, "for Mr. Vholes's office is next door." Upon 
which Ada said, perhaps that was Mr. Vholes's office in the corner 
there. And it really was. 

Then came the question, which of the two next doors ? I was for 
going to the one, and my darling was for going to the other ; and my 
darling was right again. So, up we went to the second story, where 
we came to Richard's name in great white letters on a hearse-like 
panel. 

I should have knocked, but Ada said perhaps we had better turn 
the handle and go in. Thus we came to Richard, poring over a 
table covered with dusty bundles of papers which seemed to me 
like dusty mirrors reflecting his own mind. Wherever I looked, I 
saw the ominous words that ran in it, repeated. Jarndyce and 
Jarndyce. 

He received us very affectionately, and we sat down. " If you 
had come a little earlier," he said, "you would have found Wood- 
court here. There never was such a good fellow as Woodcourt is. 
He finds time to look in between whiles, when anybody else with 
half his work to do would be thinking about not being able to come. 
And he is so cheery, so fresh, so sensible, so earnest, so — every- 
thing that I am not, that the place brightens whenever he comes, 
and darkens whenever he goes again." 

"God bless him," I thought, "for his trath to me!" 

" He is not so sanguine, Ada," continued Richard, casting his 
dejected look over the bundles of papers, " as Vlioles and I are usu- 
ally ; but he is only an outsider, and is not in the mysteries. We 
have gone into them, and he has not. He can't be expected to j 
know much of such a labyrinth." • 

As his look wandered over the papers again, and he passed his 
two hands over his head, I noticed how sunken and how large his 
eyes appeared, how dry his lips were, and how his finger-nails were , 
all bitten away. 

"Is this a healthy place to live in, Richard, do you think 1 " said I. f 

"Why, my dear Minerva," answered Richard, with his old gay , 
laugh, "it is neither a rural nor a cheerful place ; and when the 
sun shines here, you may lay a pretty heavy wager that it is shin- 
ing brightly in an open spot. But it's well enough for the time. 
It's near the offices, and near Vholes." 

" Perhaps," I hinted, " a change from both " 

" — Might do me good ? " said Richard, forcing a laugh as he fin- 
ished the sentence. " I shouldn't wonder ! But it can only come 
in one way now — in one of two ways, I should rather say. Either 
the suit must be ended, Esther, or the suitor. But it shall be the 
suit, the suit, my dear girl ! " 




^'r.,.f^,|^:,'''^'m^'^■^^■ 



646 BLEAK HOUSE. 

These latter words were addressed to Ada, who was sitting near- 
est to him. Her face being turned away from me and towards him, 
I could not see it. 

"We are doing very well," pursued Richard. " Vholes will tell 
you so. We are really spinning along. Ask Vholes. We are giv- 
ing them no rest. Vholes knows all their windings and turnings, 
and we are upon them everywhere. We have astonished them 
already. We shall I'ouse up that nest of sleepers, mark my words ! " 

His hopefulness had long been more painful to me than his de- 
spondency ; it was so unlike hopefulness, had something so fierce in 
its determination to be it, was so hungry and eager, and yet so con- 
scious of being forced and unsustainable, that it had long touched 
me to the heart. But the commentaiy upon it now indelibly writ- 
ten in his handsome face, made it far more distressing than it used 
to be. I say indelibly ; for I felt persuaded that if the fatal cause 
could have been for ever terminated, according to his brightest 
visions, in that same hour, the traces of the premature anxiety, 
self-reproach, and disappointment it had occasioned him, would 
have remained uj^on his features to the hour of his death. 

" The sight of our dear little woman," said Richard : Ada still 
remaining silent and quiet : " is so natural to me, and her com- 
passionate face is so like the face of old days " 

Ah ! No, no. I smiled and shook my head. 

" — -So exactly like the face of old days," said Richard in his 
cordial voice, and taking my hand with the brotherly regard which 
nothing ever changed, "that I can't make pretences with her. I 
fluctuate a little ; that's the truth. Sometimes I hope, my dear, 
and sometimes I — don't quite despair, but nearly. I get," said 
Richard, relinquishing my hand gently, and walking across the 
room, " so tired ! " 

He took a few turns up and down, and sunk upon the sofa. " I; 
get," he repeated gloomily, "so tired. It is such weary weary 
work ! " '( 

He was leaning on his arm, saying these words in a meditative 
voice, and looking at the ground, when my darling rose, put off 
her bonnet, kneeled down beside him with her golden hair falling 
like sunlight on his head, clasped her two arms round his neck, 
and turned her face to me. 0, what a loving and devoted face I 
saw ! 

"Esther, dear," she said very quietly, "I am not going home 
again." 

A light shone in upon me all at once. 

"Never any more. I am going to stay with my dear husband. 
We have been married above two months. Go home without me, 



BLEAK HOUSE. 647 

my own Esther ; I shall never go home any more ! " With those 
words my darling drew his head down on her breast, and held it 
there. And if ever in my life I saw a love that nothing but death 
could change, I saw it then before me. 

" Speak to Esther, my dearest," said Richard, breaking the 
silence presently. " Tell her how it was." 

I met her before she could come to me, and folded her in my arms. 
We neither of us spoke ; but with her cheek against my own, I 
wanted to hear nothing. "My pet," said I. "My love. My 
poor, poor girl ! " I pitied her so much. I was very fond of Rich- 
ard, but the imjiulse that I had upon me was to pity her so much. 

" Esther, will you forgive me 1 Will my cousin John forgive 
me?" 

"My dear," said I, "to doubt it for a moment, is to do him 
a great wrong. And as to me ! " — why, as to me, what had / to 
forgive ! 

I dried my sobbing darling's eyes, and sat beside her on the 
sofa, and Richard sat on my other side ; and while I was reminded 
of that so different night when they had first taken me into their 
confidence and had gone on in their own wild happy way, they told 
me between them how it was. 

"All I had, was Richard's," Ada said; "and Richard would 
not take it, Esther, and what could I do but be his wife when I 
loved him dearly ! " 

" And you were so fully and so kindly occupied, excellent Dame 
Durden," said Richard, "that how could we speak to you at such 
a time ! And besides, it was not a long-considered step. We 
went out one morning, and were married." 

"And when it was done, Esther," said my darling, "I was 
always thinking how to tell you, and what to do for the best. 
And sometimes I thought you ought to know it directly; and 
sometimes I thought you ought not to know it, and keep it from 
my cousin John ; and I could not tell what to do, and I fretted 
veiy much." 

How selfish I must have been, not to have thought of this be- 
fore ! I don't know what I said now. I was so sorry, and yet I 
was so fond of them, and so glad that they were fond of me ; I 
pitied them so much, and yet I felt a kind of pride in their loving 
one another. I never had experienced such painful and pleasur- 
able emotion at one time ; and in my own heart I did not know 
which predominated. But I was not there to darken their way ; I 
did not do that. 

When I was less foolish and more composed, my darling took 
her wedding ring from her bosom, and kissed it, and put it on. 



648 BLEAK HOUSE. 

Then I remembered last night, and told Richard that ever since 
her marriage she had worn it at night when there was no one to 
see. Then Ada blushingly asked me how did I know that, my 
dear? Then I told Ada how I had seen her hand concealed under 
her pillow, and had little thought why, my dear. Then they be- 
gan telling me how it was, all over again ; and I began to be sorry 
and glad again, and foolish again, and to hide my plain old face as 
much as I could, lest I should put them out of heart. 

Thus the time went on, until it became necessary for me to 
think of returning. When that time arrived it was the worst of 
all, for then my darling completely broke down. She clung round 
my neck, calUng me by every dear name she could think of, and 
saying what should she do without me ! Nor was Richard much 
better ; and as for me, I should have been the worst of the three, 
if I had not severely said to myself, " Now, Esther, if you do, I'll 
never speak to you again ! " 

"Why, I declare," said I, "I never saw such a wife. I don't 
think she loves her husband at all. Here, Richard, take my child, 
for goodness' sake." But I held her tight all the while, and could 
have wept over her I don't know how long. 

" I give this dear young couple notice," said I, " that I am only 
going away to come back to-morrow; and that I shall be always 
coming backwards and forwards, until Symond's Inn is tired of the 
sight of me. So I shall not say good bye, Richard. For what 
would be the ;ise of that, you know, when I am coming back so 
soon ! " 

I had given my darling to him now, and I meant to go ; but I 
lingered for one more look of the precious face, which it seemed to 
rive my heart to turn from. 

So I said (in a merry, bustling manner) that unless they gave 
me some encouragement to come back, I was not sure that I could 
take that liberty; upon which my dear girl looked up, faintly 
smiling through her tears, and I folded her lovely face between 
my hands, and gave it one last kiss, and laughed, and ran away. 

And when I got down-stairs, how I cried ! It almost seemed 
to me that I had lost my Ada for ever. I was so lonely, and so 
blank without her, and it was so desolate to be going home with 
no hope of seeing her there, that I could get no comfort for a little 
while, as I walked up and down in a dim corner, sobbing and 
crying. 

I came to myself by-and-bye, after a little scolding, and took a 
coach home. The poor boy whom I had found at St. Albans had 
reappeared a short time before, and was lying at the point of death ; 
indeed, was then dead, though I did not know it. My Guardian 



BLEAK HOUSE. 649 

had gone out to inquire about him, and did not return to dinner. 
Being quite alone, I cried a little again ;, though, on the whole, I 
don't think I behaved so very, very ill. 

It was only natural that I should not be quite accustomed to 
the loss of my darling yet. Three or four hours were not a long 
time, after years. But my mind dwelt so much upon the uncon- 
genial scene in which I had left her, and I pictured it as such an 
overshadowed stony-hearted one, and I so longed to be near her, 
and taking some sort of care of her, that I determined to go back 
in the evening, only to look up at her windows. 

It was foolish, I dare say ; but it did not then seem at all so to 
me, and it does not seem quite so even now. I took Charley into 
my confidence, and we went out at dusk. It was dark when we 
came to the new strange home of my dear girl, and there was a 
light behind the yellow blinds. We walked past cautiously three 
or four times, looking up ; and narrowly missed encountering Mr. 
Vholes, who came out of his office while we were there, and turned 
his head to look up too before going home. The sight of his lank 
black figure, and the lonesome air of that nook in the dark, were 
favourable to the state of my mind. I thought of the youth and 
love and beauty of my dear girl, shut up in such an ill-assorted 
refuge, almost as if it were a cruel place. 

It was very solitary and very dull, and I did not doubt that I 
might safely steal up-stairs. I left Charley below, and went up 
with a light foot, not distressed by any glare from the feeble oil 
lanterns on the way. I listened for a few moments ; and in the 
musty rotting silence of the house, believed that I could hear the 
murmur of their young voices. I put my lips to the hearse-like 
panel of the door, as a kiss for my dear, and came quietly down 
again, thinking that one of these days I would confess to the visit. 

And it really did me good ; for, though nobody but Charley and 
I knew anything about it, I somehow felt as if it had diminished 
the separation between Ada and me, and had brought us together 
again for those moments. I went back, not quite accustomed yet 
to the change, but all the better for that hovering about my darling. 

My Guardian had come home, and was standing thoughtfully by 
the dark window. When I went in, his face cleared and he came 
to his seat ; but he caught the light upon my face, as I took mine. 

"Little woman," said he. "You have been crying." 

"Why, yes, Guardian," said I, " I am afraid I have been, a lit- 
tle. Ada has been in such distress, and is so very sorry, Guardian." 

I put my arm on the back of his chair ; and I saw in his glance 
that my words, and my look at her empty place, had prepared him. 

" Is she married, my dear ? " 



650 BLEAK HOUSE. 

I told him all about it, and how her first entreaties had referred 
to his forgiveness. 

" She has no need of it," said he. " Heaven bless her, and her 
husband ! " But just as my first impulse had been to pity her, so 
was his. " Poor gii'l, j^oor girl ! Poor Rick ! Poor Ada ! " 

Neither of us spoke after that ; until he said, with a sigh, 
"Well, well, my dear ! Bleak House is thinning fast." 

" But its mistress remains. Guardian." Though I was timid 
about saying it, I ventured because of the sorrowful tone in which 
he had spoken. " She will do all she can to make it happy," said I. 

" She will succeed, my love ! " 

The letter had made no difference between us, except that the 
seat by his side had come to be mine ; it made none now. He 
turned his old bright fatherly look upon me, laid his hand on my 
hand in his old way, and said again, " She will succeed, my dear. 
Nevertheless, Bleak House is thinning fast, little woman ! " 

I was sorry presently that this was all we said about that. I 
was rather disappointed. I feared I might not quite have been all 
I had meant to be, since the letter and the answer. 



CHAPTER LII. 

OBSTINACY. 

But one other day had intervened, when, early in the morning 
as we were going to breakfast, Mr. Woodcourt came in haste with 
the astounding news that a terrible murder had been committed,! 
for which Mr. George had been apprehended and was in custody.) 
When he told us that a large reward was offered by Sir Leicesterl 
Dedlock for the murderer's apprehension, I did not in my first 
consternation understand why ; but a few more words explained 
to me that the murdered person was Sir Leicester's lawyer, and 
immediately my mother's dread of him rushed into my remembrance. 

This unforeseen and violent removal of one whom she had long 
watched and distrusted, and who had long watched and distrusted 
her ; one for whom she could have had few intervals of kindness, 
always dreading in him a dangerous and secret enemy ; appeared 
so awful, that my first thoughts were of her. How appalling to 
hear of such a death, and be able to feel no pity ! How dreadful 
to remember, perhaps, that she had sometimes even wished the 
old man away, who was so swiftly hurried out of life ! 

Such crowding reflections, increasing the distress and fear I 
always felt when the name was mentioned, made me so agitated 
that I could scarcely hold my place at the table. I was quite 



BLEAK HOUSE. 651 

unable to follow the conversation, until I had had a little time to 
recover. But when I came to myself, and saw how shocked my 
Guardian was ; and found that they were earnestly speaking of the 
suspected man, and recalling every favourable impression we had 
formed of him, out of the good we had known of him ; my interest 
and my fears were so strongly aroused in his behalf that I was 
quite set up again. 

" Guardian, you don't think it possible that he is justly accused 1 " 

"My dear, I can't think so. This man whom we have seen so 
open-hearted and compassionate ; wlio, with the might of a giant, 
has the gentleness of a child ; who looks as brave a fellow as ever 
lived, and is so simple and quiet with it ; this man justly accused 
of such a crime 1 I can't believe it. It's not that I don't or I 
won't. I can't ! " 

"And I can't," said Mr. Woodcourt. "Still, whatever we 
believe or know of him, we had better not forget that some appear- 
ances are against him. He bore an animosity towards the deceased 
gentleman. He has openly mentioned it in many places. He is 
said to have expressed himself violently towards him, and he cer- 
tainly did about him, to my knowledge. He admits that he was 
alone, on the scene of the murder, within a few minutes of its 
commission. I sincerely believe him to be as innocent of any 
participation in it, as I am ; but these are all reasons for suspicion 
falling upon him." 

"True," said my Guardian; and he added, turning to me, "it 
would be doing him a very bad service, my dear, to shut our eyes 
to the truth in any of these respects." 

I felt, of course, that we must admit, not only to ourselves but 
to others, the full force of the circumstances against him. Yet I 
knew withal (I could not help saying) that their weight would not 
induce us to desert him in his need. 

" Heaven forbid ! " returned my Guardian. " We will stand by 
him, as he himself stood by the two poor creatures who are gone." 
He meant Mr. Gridley and the boy, to both of whom Mr. George 
had given shelter. 

Mr. Woodcourt then told us that the trooper's man had been 
with him before day, after wandering about the streets all night 
like a distracted creature. That one of the trooper's first anxieties 
was that we should not supjiose him guilty. That he had charged 
his messenger to represent his perfect innocence, with every solemn 
assurance he could send us. That Mr. Woodcourt had only quieted 
the man by undertaking to come to our house very early in the 
morning, with these representations. He added that he was now 
upon his way to see the prisoner himself. 



652 BLEAK HOUSE. 

My Guardian said, directly, he would go too. Now, besides that 
I liked the retired soldier very much, and that he liked me, I had 
that secret interest in what had happened, which was only known 
to my Guardian. I felt as if it came close and near to me. It 
seemed to become personally important to myself that the truth 
should be discovered, and that no innocent people should be sus- 
pected; for suspicion, once run wild, might run wilder. 

In a word, I felt as if it were my duty and obhgation to go with 
them. My Guardian did not seek to dissuade me, and I went. 

It was a large prison, with many courts and passages so like one 
another, and so uniformly paved, that I seemed to gain a new com- 
prehension, as I passed along, of the fondness that solitary prisoners, 
shut up among the same staring walls from year to year, have had 
— as I have read — for a weed, or a stray blade of grass. In an 
arched room by himself, like a cellar up-stairs : with walls so 
glaringly white, that they made the massive iron window-bars and 
iron-bound dOor even more profoundly black than they were : we 
found the trooper standing in a corner. He had been sitting on a 
bench there, and had risen when he heard the locks and bolts turn. 

When he saw us, he came forward a step with his usual heavy 
tread, and there stopped and made a slight bow. But as I still 
advanced, putting out my hand to him, he understood us in a 
moment. 

" This is a load off my mind, I do assure you, miss and gentle- 
men," said he, saluting us with great heartiness, and drawing a long 
breath. "And now I don't so much care how it ends." 

He scarcely seemed to be the prisoner. What with his coolness 
and his soldierly bearing, he looked far more like the prison guard. 

" This is even a rou_gher place than my gallery to receive a lady 
in," said Mr. George, "but I know Miss Summerson will make the 
best of it." As he handed me to the bench on which he had been 
sitting, I sat down ; which seemed to give him great satisfaction. 

" I thank you, miss," said he. 

"Now, George," observed my Guardian, "as we require no new 
assurances on your part, so I believe we need give you none on 
ours." 

" Not at all, sir. I thank you with all my heart. If I was not 
innocent of this crime, I couldn't look at you and keep my secret to 
myself, under the condescension of the present visit. I feel the 
present visit very much. I am not one of the eloquent sort, but I 
feel it. Miss Summerson and gentlemen, deeply." 

He laid his hand for a moment on his broad chest, and bent his 
head to us. Although he squared himself again directly, he ex-' 
pressed a great amount of natural emotion by these simple means. 



BLEAK HOUSE. 653 

"First," said my Guardian, "can we do anything for your per- 
sonal comfort, George 1 " 

" For wliich, sir ? " he inquired, clearing his throat. 

" For your personal comfort. Is there anything you want, that 
would lessen the hardship of this confinement 1 " 

"Well, sir," replied Mr. George, after a little cogitation,"! am 
equally obliged to you ; but tobacco being against the rules, I can't 
say that there is." 

"You will think of many little things perhaps, by-and-bye. 
Whenever you do, George, let us know." 

" Thank you, sir. Howsoever," observed Mr. George, with one 
of liis sunburnt smiles, " a man who has been knocking about the 
world in a vagabond kind of a way as long as I have, gets on well 
enough in a place like the present, so far as that goes." 

"Next, as to your case," observed my Guardian. 

"Exactly so, sir," returned Mr. George, folding his arms upon 
his breast with perfect self-possession and a little curiosity. 

" How does it stand now 1 " 

" Why, sir, it is under remand at present. Bucket gives me to 
understand that he will probably apply for a series of remands from 
time to time, until the case is more complete. How it is to be 
made more complete, I don't myself see ; but I dare say Bucket 
will manage it somehow." 

" Why, Heaven save us, man ! " exclaimed my Guardian, sur- 
prised into his old oddity and vehemence, " you talk of yourself as 
if you were somebody else ! " 

" No offence, sir," said Mr. George. " I am very sensible of your 
kindness. But I don't see how an innocent man is to make up his 
mind to this kind of thing without knocking his head against the 
walls, unless he takes it in that point of view." 

" That is true enough, to a certain extent," returned my Guardian, 
softened. " But my good fellow, even an innocent man must take 
ordinary precautions to defend himself" 

" Certainly, sir. And I have done so. I have stated to the 
magistrates, ' Gentlemen, I am as innocent of this charge as your- 
selves ; what has been stated against me in the way of facts, is 
perfectly true ; I know no more about it." I intend to continue 
stating that, sir. What more can I do ? It's the truth." 

" But the mere truth won't do," rejoined my Guardian. 

"Won't it, indeed, sir? Rather a bad look-out for me !" Mr. 
George good-huraouredly observed. 

"You must have a lawyer," pursued my Guardian. "We must 
engage a good one for you." 

"I ask your pardon, sir," said Mr. George, with a step back- 



654 BLEAK HOUSE. 

ward. " I am equally obliged. But I must decidedly beg to be 
excused from anything of that sort." 

" You won't have a lawyer 1 " 

"No, sir." Mr. George shook his head in the most emphatic 
manner. " I thank you all the same, sir, but — no lawyer ! " 

" Why not 1 " 

"I don't take kindly to the breed," said Mr. George. "Gridley 
didn't. And — if you'll excuse my saying so much — I should 
hardly have thought you did yourself, sir." 

"That's Equity," my Guardian explained, a little at a loss; 
"that's Equity, George." 

"Is it indeed, sir?" returned the trooper, in his off-hand man- 
ner. "I am not acquainted with those shades of names myself, 
but in a general way I object to the breed." 

Unfolding his arms, and changing his position, he stood with one 
massive hand upon the table, and the other on his hip, as complete 
a picture of a man who was not to be moved from a fixed purpose 
as ever I saw. It was in vain that we all three talked to him, and 
endeavoured to persuade him ; lie listened with that gentleness 
which went so well with his bluff bearing, but was evidently no 
more shaken by our representations than his place of confinement 
was. 

"Pray think, once more, Mr. George," said I. "Have you no 
wish, in reference to your case ? " 

"I certainly could wish it to be tried, miss," he returned, "by 
court-martial ; but that is out of the question, as I am well aware. 
If you will be so good as to favour me with your attention for a 
couple of minutes, miss, not more, I'll endeavour to explain myself 
as clearly as I can." 

He looked at us all three in turn, shook his head a little as if he 
were adjusting it in the stock and collar of a tight uniform, and 
after a moment's reflection went on. 

" You see, miss, I have been handcuffed and taken into custody, 
and brought here. I am a marked and disgraced man, and here 
I am. My shooting-gallery is rummaged, high and low, by Bucket ; 
such property as I have — 'tis small — is turned this way and that, 
till it don't know itself ; and (as aforesaid) here I am ! I don't 
particular complain of that. Though I am in these present quar- 
ters througli no immediately preceding fault of mine, I can very 
well understand that if I hadn't gone into tlie vagabond way in my 
youth, this wouldn't have happened. It has happened. Then 
comes the question, how to meet it." 

He rubbed his swarthy forehead for a moment, with a good- 
humoured look, and said apologetically, "I am such a short-winded 



BLEAK HOUSE. 655 

talker that I must think a bit." Having thought a bit, he looked 
up again, and resumed. 

" How to meet it. Now, the unfortunate deceased was himself 
a lawyer, and had a pretty tight hold of me. I don't wish to rake 
up his ashes, but he had, what I should call if he was living, a 
Devil of a tight hold of me. I don't like his trade the better for 
that. If I had kept clear of his trade, I should have kept outside 
this place. But that's not what I mean. Now, suppose I had 
killed him. Suppose I really had discharged into his body any one 
of those pistols recently fii-ed off, that Bucket has found at my 
place, and, dear me ! might have found there any day since it has 
been my place. What should I have done as soon as I was hard 
and fast here ? Got a lawyer." 

He stopped on hearing some one at the locks and bolts, and did 
not resume until the door had been opened and was shut again. 
For what purpose opened, I will mention presently. 

" I should have got a lawyer, and he would have said (as I have 
often read in the newspapers), ' my client says nothing, my client 
reserves his defence — my client this, that, and t'other.' Well ! 
'tis not the custom of that breed to go straight, according to my 
opinion, or to think that other men do. Say, I am innocent, and 
I get a lawyer. He would be as likely to believe me guilty as 
not ; perhaps more. What would he do, whether or no ? Act as 
if I was ; — shut my mouth up, tell me not to commit myself, keep 
circumstances back, chop the evidence small, quibble, and get me 
off perhaps ! But, Miss Summerson, do I care for getting off in 
that way ; or would I rather be hanged in my own way — if you'U 
excuse my mentioning anything so disagreeable to a lady ? " 

He had warmed into his subject now, and was under no further 
necessity to wait a bit. 

" I would rather be hanged in my own way. And I mean to be ! 
I don't intend to say," looking round upon us, with his powerful 
arms akimbo and his dark eyebrows raised, " that I am more par- 
tial to being hanged than another man. What I say is, I must 
come off clear and full, or not at all. Therefore, when I hear stated 
against me what is true, I say it's true ; and when they tell me, 
' whatever you say will be used, ' I tell them I don't mind that ; 
I mean it to be used. If they can't make me innocent out of the 
whole truth, they are not likely to do it out of anything less, or 
anything else. And if they are, it's worth nothing to me." 

Taking a pace or two over the stone floor, he came back to 
the table, and finished what he had to say. 

" I thank you, miss, and gentlemen both, many times for your 
attention, and many times more for your interest. That's the plain 



656 BLEAK HOUSE. 

state of the matter, as it points itself out to a mere trooper with a 
blunt broadsword kind of a mind. I have never done well in life, 
beyond my duty as t soldier ; and if the worst comes after all, I 
shall reap pretty much as I have sown. When I got over the 
first crash of being seized as a murderer — it don't take a rover, 
who has knocked about so much as myself, so very long to recover 
from a crash — - 1 worked my way round to what you find me now. 
As such, I shall remain. No relations will be disgraced by me, 
or made vmhappy for me, and — and that's all I've got to say." 

The door had been opened to admit another soldier-looking man 
of less prepossessing appearance at first sight, and a weather-tanned, 
bright-eyed, wholesome woman with a basket, who, from her 
entrance, had been exceedingly attentive to all Mr. George had said. 
Mr. George had received them with a familiar nod and a friendly 
look, but without any more particular greeting in the midst of his 
address. He now shook them cordially by the hand, and said, 
" Miss Summerson and gentlemen, this is an old comrade of mine, 
Joseph Bagnet. And this is his wife, Mrs. Bagnet." 

Mr. Bagnet made us a stifi" military bow, and Mrs. Bagnet 
dropped us a curtsey. 

"Real good friends of mine they are," said Mr. George. "It 
was at their house I was taken." 

"With a second-hand wioliuceller," Mr. Bagnet put in, twitching 
his head angrily. " Of a good tone. For a friend. That money 
was no object to." 

" Mat," said Mr. George, "you have heard pretty well all I have 
been saying to this lady and these two gentlemen. I know it meets 
your approval ? " 

Mr. Bagnet, after considering, referred the point to his wife. 
"Old girl," said he. "Tell him. Whether or not. It meets my 
approval." 

" Why, George," exclaimed Mrs. Bagnet, who had been unpacking 
her basket, in which there was a piece of cold pickled pork, a little 
tea and sugar, and a brown loaf, "you ought to know it don't. 
You ought to know it's enough to drive a person wild to hear you. 
You won't be got off" this way, and you won't be got ofi" that way 
— what do you mean by such picking and choosing ? It's stuff 
and nonsense, George." 

"Don't be severe upon me in my misfortunes, Mrs. Bagnet," 
said the trooper, lightly. 

" Oh ! Bother your misfortunes ! " cried Mrs. Bagnet, " if they 
don't make you more reasonable than that comes to. I never was 
so ashamed in my life to hear a man talk folly, as I have been to 
hear you talk this day to the present company. Lawyers ? Why, 



BLEAK HOUSE. 657 

what but too many cooks should hinder you from having a dozen 
lawyers, if the gentleman recommended them to you 1 " 

"This is a very sensible woman," said my Guardian. "I hope 
you will i^ersuade him, Mrs. Bagnet." 

" Persuade him, sir ? " she returned. " Lord bless you, no. You 
don't know George. Now, there ! " Mrs. Bagnet left her basket 
to point him out with both her bare brown hands. " There he 
stands ! As self-willed and as determined a man, in the wrong way, 
as ever put a human creature under Heaven, out of patience ! 
You could as soon take up and shoulder an eight-and-forty pounder 
by your own strength, as turn that man, when he has got a thing 
into his head, and fixed it there. Why, don't I know him ! " cried 
Mrs. Bagnet. " Don't I know you, George ! You don't mean to 
set up for a new character with 7n,e, after all these years, I 
hope 1 " 

Her friendly indignation had an exemplary effect upon her hus- 
band, who shook his head at the trooper several times, as a silent 
recommendation to him to yield. Betweenwhiles, Mrs. Bagnet 
looked at me ; and I understood, from the play of her eyes, that 
she wished me to do something, though I did not comprehend what. 

"But I have given up talking to you, old fellow, years and 
years," said Mrs. Bagnet, as she blew a little dust off the pickled 
pork, looking at me again ; " and when ladies and gentlemen know 
you as well as I do, they'll give up talking to you too. If you are 
not too headstrong to accept of a bit of dinner, here it is." 

"I accept it, with many thanks," returned the trooper. 

"Do you though, indeed?" said Mrs. Bagnet, continuing to 
grumble on good-humouredly. " I'm sure I'm surprised at that. 
I wonder you don't starve in your own way also. It would only be 
Uke you. Perhaps you'll set your mind upon that, next." Here 
she again looked at me ; and I now perceived, from her glances at 
the door and at me, by turns, that she wished us to retire, and to 
await her following us, outside the prison. Communicating this by 
similar means to my Guardian, and Mr. Woodcourt, I rose. 

" We hope you will think better of it, Mr. George," said I ; 
" and we shall come to see you again, trusting to find you more 
reasonable." 

" More grateful. Miss Summersou, you can't find me," he returned. 

"But more persuadable we can, I hope," said I. " And let me 
entreat you to consider that the clearing up of this mystery, and 
the discovery of the real perpetrator of this deed, may be of the 
last importance to others besides yourself" 

He heard me respectfully, but without much heeding these words, 
which I spoke, a little turned from him, already on my way to the 

2u 



658 BLEAK HOUSE. 

door ; he was observing (this they afterwards told me) my height 
and tigure, which seemed to catch his attention all at once. 

"'Tis curious," said he. "And yet I thought so at the time!" 

My Guardian asked him what he meant. 

" Why, sir," he answered, " when my ill-fortune took me to the 
dead man's staircase on the night of his murder, I saw a shape so 
like Miss Summerson's go by me in the dark, that I had half a 
mind to speak to it." 

For an instant, I felt such a shudder as I never felt before or 
since, and hope I shall never feel again. 

"It came down-stairs as I went up," said the trooper, "and 
crossed the moonlighted window with a loose black mantle on ; I 
noticed a deep fringe to it. However, it has nothing to do with 
the present subject, excepting that Miss Summerson looked so like 
it at the moment, that it came into my head." 

I cannot separate and define the feelings that arose in me after 
this : it is enough that the vague duty and obligation I had felt 
upon me from the first of following the investigation, was, without 
my distinctly daring to ask myself any question, increased ; and 
that I was indignantly sure of there being no possibility of a reason 
for my being afraid. 

We three went out of the prison, and walked up and down at 
some short distance from the gate, which was in a retired place. 
We had not waited long, when Mr. and Mrs. Bagnet came out too, 
and quickly joined us. 

There was a tear in each of Mrs. Bagnet's eyes, and her face was 
flushed and hurried. "I didn't let George see what I thought, 
about it, you know, miss," was her first remark when she came up ; 
" but he's in a bad way, poor old fellow ! " 

" Not with care and prudence, and good help," said my Guardian. 

" A gentleman like you ought to know best, sir," returned Mrs. 
Bagnet, hurriedly drying her eyes on the hem of her grey cloak ; 
" but I am uneasy for him. He has been so careless, and said so 
much that he never meant. The gentlemen of the juries might not 
understand him as Lignum and me do. And then such a number 
of circumstances have happened bad for him, and such a number of 
people will be brought forward to speak against him, and Bucket 
is so deep." 

" With a second-hand wiolinceller. And said he played the fife. 
When a boy." Mr. Bagnet added, with great solemnity. 

"Now, I tell you, miss," said Mrs. Bagnet; "and when I say 
miss, I mean all ! Just come into the corner of the wall, and I'll 
teU you ! " 

Mrs. Bagnet hurried us into a more secluded place, and was at 



BLEAK HOUSE. 669 

first too breathless to proceed ; occasioning Mr. Bagnet to say, 
"Old girl! Tell 'em 1" 

"Why, then, miss," the old girl proceeded, untying the strings 
of her bonnet for more air, "you could as soon move Dover Castle 
as move George on this point, unless you had got a new power to 
move him with. And I have got it ! " 

" You are a jewel of a woman," said my Guardian. " Go 
on!" 

" Now, I tell you, miss," she proceeded, clapping her hands in 
her hurry and agitation a dozen times in every sentence, "that 
what he says concerning no relations is all bosh. They don't know 
of him, but he does know of them. He has said more to me at odd 
times than to anybody else, and it warn't for nothing that he once 
spoke to my Woolwich about whitening and wrinkling mothers' 
heads. For fifty pounds he had seen his mother that day. She's 
alive, and must be brought here straight ! " 

Instantly Mrs. Bagnet put some pins into her mouth, and began 
pinning up her skirts all round, a little higher than the level of her 
grey cloak ; which she accomplished with surprising dispatch and 
dexterity. 

"Lignum," said Mrs. Bagnet, "you take care of the children, 
old man, and give me the umbrella ! I'm away to Lincolnshire, to 
bring that old lady here." 

" But, bless the woman ! " cried my Guardian with his hand in 
his pocket, "how is she going? What money has she got?" 

Mrs. Bagnet made another application to her skirts, and brought 
forth a leathern purse in which she hastily counted over a few shil- 
lings, and which she then shut up with perfect satisfaction. 

" Never you mind for me, miss. I'm a soldier's wife, and accus- 
tomed to travelling in my own way. Lignum, old boy," kissing him, 
"one for yourself; three for the children. Now, I'm away into 
Lincolnshire after George's mother ! " 

And she actually set off" while we three stood looking at one an- 
other lost in amazement. She actually trudged away in her grey 
cloak at a sturdy pace, and turned the corner, and was gone. 

" Mr. Bagnet," said my Guardian. " Do you mean to let her go 
in that way 1 " 

"Can't help it," he returned. "Made her way home once. 
From another quarter of the world. With the same grey cloak. 
And same umbrella. Whatever the old girl says, do. Do it ! 
Whenever the old girl says, I'll do it. She does it." 

" Then she is as honest and genuine as she looks," rejoined 
my Guardian, "and it is impossible to say more for her." 

" She's Colour-Serjeant of the Nonpareil battalion," said Mr. Bag- 



660 BLEAK HOUSE. 

net, looking at us over his shoulder, as he went his way also. " And 
there's not such another. But I never own to it before her. Dis- 
cipline must be maintained." 



CHAPTER LIII. 

THE TRACK. 

Mr. Bucket and his fat forefinger are much in consultation 
together under existing circumstances. When Mr. Bucket has a 
matter of this pressing interest under his consideration, the fat 
forefinger seems to rise to the dignity of a familiar demon. He 
puts it to his ears, and it whispers information ; he puts it to his 
lips, and it enjoins him to secrecy; he rubs it over his nose, and it 
sharpens his scent ; he shakes it before a guilty man, and it charms 
him to his destruction. The Augurs of the Detective Temple in- 
variably predict, that when Mr. Bucket and that finger are much 
in conference, a terrible avenger will be heard of before long. 

Otherwise mildly studious in his observation of human nature, on 
the whole a benignant philosopher not disposed to be severe upon 
the follies of mankind, Mr. Bucket pervades a vast number of houses, 
and strolls about an infinity of streets : to outward appearance 
rather languishing for want of an object. He is in the friendliest 
condition toward his species, and will drink with most of them. 
He is free with his money, affable in his manners, innocent in his 
conversation — but, through the placid sti'eam of his life, there 
glides an under-current of forefinger. 

Time and place cannot bind Mr. Bucket. Like man in the ab- 
stract, he is here to-day and gone to-morrow — but, very unlike 
man indeed, he is here again the next day. This evening he will 
be casually looking into the iron extinguishers at the door of Sir 
Leicester Dedlock's house in town ; and to-morrow morning he will 
be walking on the leads at Chesney Wold, where erst the old 
man walked whose ghost is propitiated with a hundred guineas. 
Drawers, desks, pockets, all things belonging to him, Mr. Bucket 
examines. A few hours afterwards, he and the Roman will be 
alone together, comparing forefingers. 

It is likely that these occupations are irreconcilable with home 
enjoyment, but it is certain that Mr. Bucket at present does not 
go home. Though in general he highly appreciates the society of 
Mrs. Bucket — a lady of a natural detective genius, which if it 
had been improved by professional exercise, might have done great 
things, but which has paused at the level of a clever amateur — he 



BLEAK HOUSE. 661 

holds himself aloof from that dear solace. Mrs. Bucket is dependent 
on their lodger (fortunately an amiable lady in whom she takes an 
interest) for companionship and conversation. 

A great crowd assembles in Lincoln's Inn Fields on the day of 
the funeral. Sir Leicester Dedlock attends the ceremony in per- 
son ; strictly speaking, there are only three other human followers, 
that is to say. Lord Doodle, William Buffy, and the debilitated 
cousin (thrown in as a make-weight), but the amount of inconsol- 
able carriages is immense. The Peerage contributes more four- 
wheeled affliction than has ever been seen in that neighbourhood. 
Such is the assemblage of armorial bearings on coach panels, that 
the Heralds' College might be supposed to have lost its father and 
mother at a blow. The Duke of Foodie sends a splendid pile of 
dust and ashes, with silver wheel-boxes, patent axles, all the last 
improvements, and three bereaved worms, six feet high, holding on 
behind, in a bunch of woe. All the state coachmen in London seem 
plunged into mourning ; and if that dead old man of the rusty 
garb, be not beyond a taste in horseflesh (which appears impos- 
sible), it must be highly gratified this day. 

Quiet among the undertakers and the equipages, and the calves 
of so many legs all steeped in grief, Mr. Bucket sits concealed in one 
of the inconsolable carriages, and at his ease surveys the crowd 
through the lattice blinds. He has a keen eye for a crowd — as 
for what not ? — and looking here and there, now from this side of 
the carriage, now from the other, now up at the house windows, 
now along the people's heads, nothing escapes him. 

" And there you are, my partner, eh 1 " says Mr. Bucket to him- 
self, apostrophising Mrs. Bucket, stationed, by his favour, on the 
steps of the deceased's house. " And so you are. And so you are ! 
And verj' well indeed you are looking, Mrs. Bucket ! " 

The procession has not started yet, but is waiting for the cause 
of its assemblage to be brought out. Mr. Bucket, in the foremost 
emblazoned carriage, uses his two fat forefingers to hold the lattice 
a hair's breadth open while he looks. 

And it says a great deal for his attachment, as a husband, that 
he is still occupied with Mrs. B. " There you are, my partner, 
eh ? " he murmuringly repeats. " And our lodger with you. I'm 
taking notice of you, Mrs. Bucket ; I hope you're all right in your 
health, my dear ! " 

Not another word does Mr. Bucket say ; but sits with most at- 
tentive eyes, until the sacked depository of noble secrets is brought 
down — Where are all those secrets now ? Does he keep them yet 1 
Did they fly with him on that sudden journey? — and until the 
procession moves, and Mr. Bucket's view is changed. After which, 



662 BLEAK HOUSE. 

he composes himself for an easy ride ; and takes note of the fittings 
of the carriage, in case he should ever find such knowledge useful. 

Contrast enough between Mr. Tulkinghorn shut up in his dark 
carriage, and Mr. Bucket shut up in his. Between the immeasur- 
able track of space beyond the little wound that has thrown the 
one into the fixed sleep which jolts so heavily over the stones of 
the streets, and the narrow track of blood which keeps the other 
in the watchful state expressed in every hair of his head! But 
it is all one to both ; neither is troubled about that. 

Mr. Bucket sits out the procession, in his own easy manner, and 
glides from the carriage when the opportunity he has settled with 
himself arrives. He makes for Sir Leicester Dedlock's, which is at 
present a sort of home to him, where he comes and goes as he likes 
at all hours, where he is always welcome and made much of, where 
he knows the whole establishment, and walks in an atmosphere of 
mysterious greatness. 

No knocking or ringing for Mr. Bucket. He has caused himself 
to be provided with a key, and can pass in at his pleasure. As he 
is crossing the hall, Mercury informs him," Here's another letter for 
you, Mr. Bucket, come by post," and gives it him. 

" Another one, eh 1 " says Mr. Bucket. 

If Mercury should chance to be possessed by any lingering curi- 
osity as to Mr. Bucket's letters, that wary person is not the man to 
gratify it. Mr. Bucket looks at him, as if his face were a vista of 
some miles in length, and he were leisurely contemplating the same. 

" Do you happen to carry a box 1 " says Mr. Bucket. 

Unfortunately Mercury is no snuff'-taker. 

" Could you fetch me a pinch from anywheres ? " says Mr. Bucket. 
" Thankee. It don't matter what it is ; I'm not particular as to the 
kind. Thankee ! " 

Having leisurely helped himself from a canister borrowed from 
somebody down-stairs for the purpose, and having made a consider- 
able show of tasting it, first with one side of his nose and then with 
the other, Mr. Bucket, with much deliberation, pronounces it of the 
right sort, and goes on, letter in hand. 

Now, although Mr. Bucket walks up-stairs to the little library 
within the larger one, with the face of a man who receives some 
scores of letters every day, it happens that much correspondence is 
not incidental to his life. He is no great scribe ; rather handling 
his pen like the pocket-staff he carries about with him always con- 
venient to his grasp ; and discourages correspondence with himself 
in others, as being too artless and direct a way of doing delicate 
business. Further, he often sees damaging letters produced in evi- 
dence, and has occasion to reflect that it was a green thing to write 



BLEAK HOUSE. 663 

them. For these reasons he has very little to do with letters, 
either as sender or receiver. And yet he has received a round half 
dozen, within the last twenty-four hours. 

"And this," says Mr. Bucket, sj^reading it out on the table, "is 
in the same hand, and consists of the same two words." 

What two words 1 

He turns the key in the door, ungirdles his black pocket-book 
(book of fate to many), lays another letter by it, and reads, boldly 
written in each, " Lady Dedlock." 

"Yes, yes," says Mr. Bucket. "But I could have made the 
money without this anonymous information." 

Having put the letters in his book of Fate, and girdled it up 
again, he unlocks the door just in time to admit his dinner, which 
is brought upon a goodly tray, with a decanter of sherry. Mr. 
Bucket frequently observes, in friendly circles where there is no 
restraint, that he likes a toothful of your fine old brown East Inder 
sherry better than anything you can offer him. Consequently he 
fills and empties his glass, with a smack of his lips ; and is- pro- 
ceeding with his refreshment, when an idea enters his mind. 

Mr. Bucket softly opens the door of communication between that 
room and the next, and looks in. The library is deserted, and the 
fire is sinking low. Mr. Bucket's eye, after taking a pigeon-flight 
round the room, alights upon a table where letters are usually put 
as they arrive. Several letters for Sir Leicester are upon it. 
Mr. Bucket draws near, and examines the directions. "No," he 
says, "there's none in that hand. It's only me as is written to. 
I can break it to Sir Leicester Dedlock, Baronet, to-morrow." 

With that, he returns to finish his dinner with a good appetite ; 
and, after a light nap, is summoned into the drawing-room. Sir 
Leicester has received him there these several evenings past, to 
know whether he has anything to report. The debilitated cousin 
(much exhausted by the funeral), and Volumnia, are in attend- 
ance. 

Mr. Bucket makes three distinctly different bows to these three 
people. A bow of homage to Sir Leicester, a bow of gallantry to 
Volumnia, and a bow of recognition to the debilitated cousin ; to 
whom it airily says, " You are a swell about town, and you know 
me, and I know you." Having distributed these little specimens 
of his tact, Mr. Bucket rubs his hands. 

" Have you anything new to communicate, officer 1 " inquires 
Sir Leicester. "Do you wish to hold any conversation with me 
in private ? " 

"Why — not to-night, Sir Leicester Dedlock, Baronet." 

"Because my time," pursues Sir Leicester, "is wholly at your 



664 BLEAK HOUSE. 

disposal, with a view to the vindication of the outraged majesty 
of the law." 

Mr. Bucket coughs, and glances at Volumnia, rouged and neck- 
laced, as though he would respectfully observe, " I do assure you, 
you're a pretty creetur. I've seen hundreds worse-looking at your 
time of life, I have indeed." 

The fair Volumnia, not quite unconscious perhaps of the human- 
ising influence of her charms, pauses in the writing of cocked-hat 
notes, and meditatively adjusts the pearl necklace. Mr. Bucket 
prices that decoration in his mind, and thinks it as likely as not 
that Volumnia is writing poetry. 

"If I have not," pursues Sir Leicester, "in the most emphatic 
manner, adjured you, officer, to exercise your utmost skill in this 
atrocious case, I particularly desire to take the present opportunity 
of rectifying any omission I may have made. Let no expense be 
a consideration. I am prepared to defray all charges. You can 
incur none, in pursuit of the object you have undertaken, that I 
shall hesitate for a moment to bear." 

Mr. Bucket makes Sir Leicester's bow again, as a response to 
this liberality. 

"My mind," Sir Leicester adds, with generous warmth, "has 
not, as may be easily supposed, recovered its tone since the late 
diabolical occurrence. It is not likely ever to recover its tone. 
But it is full of indignation to-night, after undergoing the ordeal 
of consigning to the tomb the remains of a faithful, a zealous, a 
devoted adherent." 

Sir Leicester's voice trembles, and his grey hair stirs upon his 
head. Tears are in his eyes ; the best part of his nature is aroused. 

"I declare," he says,. "I solemnly declare that until this crime 
is discovered and, in the course of justice, punished, I almost feel 
as if there were a stain upon my name. A gentleman who has 
devoted a large portion of his life to me, a gentleman who has 
devoted the last day of his life to me, a gentleman who has con- 
stantly sat at my table and slept under my roof, goes from my 
house to his own, and is struck down within an hour of his leaving 
my house. I cannot say but that he may have been followed from 
my house, watched at my house, even first marked because of his 
association with my house — which may have suggested his possess- 
ing greater wealth, and being altogether of greater importance than 
his own retiring demeanour would have indicated. If I cannot 
with my means, and my influence, and my position, bring all the 
perpetrators of such a crime to light, I fail in the assertion of my 
respect for that gentleman's memory, and of my fidelity towards 
one who was ever faithful to me." 



BLEAK HOUSE. 665 

While he makes this protestation with great emotion and earnest- 
ness, looking round tlie room as if he were addressing an assembly, 
Mr. Bucket glances at him with an observant gravity in which 
there might be, but for the audacity of the thought, a touch of 
compassion. 

"The ceremony of to-day," continues Sir Leicester, "strikingly 
illustrative of the respect in which my deceased friend ; " he lays a 
stress upon the word, for death levels all distinctions; "was held 
by the flower of the land, has, I say, aggravated the shock I have 
received from this most horrible and audacious crime. If it were 
my brother who had committed it, I would not spare him." 

Mr. Bucket looks very grave. Volumnia remarks of the deceased 
that he was the trustiest and dearest person ! 

" You must feel it as a deprivation to you, miss," replies Mr. 
Bucket, soothingly, " no doubt. He was calculated to he a depri- 
vation, I'm sure he was." 

Volumnia gives Mr. Bucket to understand, in reply, that her sen- 
sitive mind is fully made up never to get the better of it as long as 
she lives ; that her nerves are unstrung for ever ; and that she has 
not the least expectation of smiling again. Meanwhile she folds 
up a cocked-hat for that redoubtable old general at Bath, descrip- 
tive of her melancholy condition. 

" It gives a start to a delicate female," says Mr. Bucket, sympa- 
thetically, "but it'll wear off." 

Volumnia wishes of all things to know what is doing ? Whether 
they are going to convict, or whatever it is, that dreadful soldier 1 
Whether he had any accomplices, or whatever the thing is called, 
in the law 1 And a great deal more to the like artless purpose. 

"Why, you see, miss," returns Mr. Bucket, bringing the finger 
into persuasive action — and such is his natural gallantry, that he 
had almost said, my dear ; " it ain't easy to answer those questions 
at the present moment. Not at the present moment. I've kept 
myself on this case, Sir Leicester Dedlock, Baronet," whom Mr 
Bucket takes into the conversation in right of his importance, 
"morning, noon, and night. But for a glass or two of sherry, I 
don't think I could have had my mind so much upon the stretch 
as it has been. I could answer your questions, miss, but duty 
forbids it. Sir Leicester Dedlock, Baronet, will veiy soon be made 
acquainted with all that has been traced. And I hope that he may 
find it; " Mr. Bucket again looks grave ; "to his satisfaction." 

The debilitated cousin only hopes some fler'U be executed — 
zample. Thinks more interest's wanted — get man hanged pres- 
entime — than get man place ten thousand a year. Hasn't a 
doubt — zample — far better hang wrong fler than no fler. 



666 BLEAK HOUSE. 

" You know life, you know, sir," says Mr. Bucket, with a com- 
plimentary twinkle of his eye and crook of his finger, " and you can 
confirm what I've mentioned to this lady. You don't want to be 
told, that, from information I have received, I have gone to work. 
You're up to what a lady can't be expected to be up to. Lord ! 
especially in your elevated station of society, miss," says Mr. Bucket, 
quite reddening at another narrow escape from my dear. 

*'The officer, Volumnia," observes Sir Leicester, "is faithful to 
his duty, and perfectly right." 

Mr. Bucket murmurs, " Glad to have the honour of your appro- 
bation. Sir Leicester Dedlock, Baronet." 

"In fact, Volumnia," proceeds Sir Leicester, " it is not holding 
up a good model for imitation, to ask the officer any such questions 
as you have put to him. He is the best judge of his own responsi- 
bility ; he acts upon his responsibility. And it does not become us, 
who assist in making the laws, to impede or interfere with those 
who carry them into execution. Or," says Sir Leicester, somewhat 
sternly, for Volumnia was going to cut in before he had rounded his 
sentence; "or who vindicate their outraged majesty." 

Volumnia with all humility explains that she has not merely the 
plea of curiosity to urge (in common with the giddy youth of her 
sex in general), but that she is perfectly dying with regret and 
interest for the darling man whose loss they all deplore. 

"Very well, Volumnia," returns Sir Leicester. "Then you can- 
not be too discreet." 

Mr. Bucket takes the opportunity of a pause to be heard again. 

" Sir Leicester Dedlock, Baronet, I have no objections to telling 
this lady, with your leave and among ourselves, that I look upon 
the case as pretty well, complete. It is a beautiful case — a beau- 
tiful case — and what little is wanting to complete it, I expect to 
be able to supply in a few hours." 

" I am very glad indeed to hear it," says Sir Leicester. " Highly 
creditable to you." 

" Sir Leicester Dedlock, Baronet," returns Mr. Bucket, very seri- 
ously, " I hope it may at one and the same time do me credit, and 
prove satisfactory to all. When I depict it as a beautiful case, you 
see, miss," Mr. Bucket goes on, glancing gravely at Sir Leicester, 
" I mean from my point of view. As considered from other points 
of view, such cases will always involve more or less unpleasantness. 
Very strange things comes to our knowledge in families, miss ; bless 
your heart, wliat you would think to be phenomenons, quite ! " 

Volumnia, with her innocent little scream, supposes so. 

"Aye, and even in gen-teel families, in high families, in great 
families," says Mr. Bucket, again gravely eyeing Sir Leicester aside. 



BLEAK HOUSE. 667 

" I have had the honour of being employed in high families before ; 
and you have no idea — come, I'll go so far as to say not even you 
have any idea, sir," this to the debilitated cousin, "what games 
goes on ! " 

The cousin, who has been casting sofa-pillows on his head, in a 
prostration of boredom, yawns, "Vayli" — being the used-up for 
"very likely." 

Sir Leicester, deeming it time to dismiss the officer, here ma- 
jestically interposes with the words, "Very good. Thank you!" 
and also with a wave of his hand, implying not only that there is 
an end of the discourse, but that if high families fall into low habits 
they must take the consequences. "You will not forget, officer," 
he adds, with condescension, "that I am at your disposal when 
you please." 

Mr. Bucket (still grave) inquires if to-morrow morning, now, 
would suit, in case he should be as for'ard as he expects to be 1 
Sir Leicester replies, " All times are alike to me." Mr. Bucket 
makes his three bows, and is withdrawing, when a forgotten point 
occurs to him. 

"Might I ask, by-the-bye," he says, in a low voice, cautiously 
returning, "who posted the Reward-bill on the staircase." 

"/ordered it to be put up there," replies Sir Leicester. 

" Would it be considered a liberty. Sir Leicester Dedlock, Baronet, 
if I was to ask you why ? " 

" Not at all. I chose it as a conspicuous part of the house. I 
think it cannot be too prominently kept before the whole establish- 
ment. I wish my people to be impressed with the enormity of the 
crime, the determination to punish it, and the hopelessness of escape. 
At the same time, officer, if you in your better knowledge of the 
subject see any objection " 

Mr. Bucket sees none now ; the bill having been put up, had bet- 
ter not be taken down. Repeating his three bows he withdraws : 
closing the door on Volumnia's little scream, which is a preliminary 
to her remarking that that charmingly horrible person is a perfect 
Blue Chamber. 

In his fondness for society, and his adaptability to all grades, 
Mr. Bucket is presently standing before the hall-fire — bright and 
warm on the early winter night — admiring Mercury. 

" Why, you're six foot two, I suppose ? " says Mr. Bucket. 

" Three," says Mercury. 

" Are you so much 1 But then, you see, you're broad in propor- 
tion, and don't look it. You're not one of the weak-legged ones, 
you ain't. Was you ever modelled now 1 " Mr. Bucket asks, con- 
veying the expression of an artist into the turn of his eye and head. 



668 BLEAK HOUSE. 

Mercury never was modelled. 

"Then you ought to be, you know," says Mr. Bucket; "and a 
friend of mine that you'll hear of one day as a Royal Academy 
Sculptor, would stand something handsome to make a drawing of 
your proportions for the marble. My Lady's out, ain't she 1 " 

" Out to dinner." 

" Goes out pretty well every day, don't she 1 " 

" Yes." 

" Not to be wondered at ! " says Mr. Bucket. " Such a fine 
woman as her, so handsome and so graceful and so elegant, is like 
a fresh lemon on a dinner-table, ornamental wherever she goes. 
Was your father in the same way of life as yourself? " 

Answer in the negative. 

"Mine was," says Mr. Bucket. "My father was first a page, 
then a footman, then a butler, then a steward, then a innkeeper. 
Lived universally respected, and died lamented. Said with his last 
breath that he considered service the most honourable part of his 
career, and so it was. I've a brother in service, mid a brother- 
in-law. My Lady a good temper 1 " 

Mercury replies, "As good as you can expect." 

"Ah ! " says Mr. Bucket, "a little spoilt? A little capricious? 
Lord ! What can you anticii3ate when they're so handsome as that ? 
And we like 'em all the better for it, don't we ? " 

Mercury, ^vith his hands in the pockets of his bright peach- 
blossom small-clothes, stretches his symmetrical silk legs with the 
air of a man of gallantry, and can't deny it. Come the roll of 
wheels and a violent ringing at the bell. " Talk of the angels," 
says Mr. Bucket. " Here she is ! " 

The doors are thrown open, and she passes through the hall. 
Still very pale, she is dressed in slight mourning, and wears two 
beautiful bracelets. Either their beauty, or the beauty of her arms, 
is particularly attractive to Mr. Bucket. He looks at them with 
an eager eye, and rattles something in his pocket — halfpence 
perhaps. 

Noticing him at his distance, she turns an inquiring look on the 
other Mercury who has brought her home. 

"Mr. Bucket, my Lady." 

Mr. Bucket makes a leg, and comes forward, passing his famil- 
iar demon over the region of his mouth. 

" Are you waiting to see Sir Leicester ? " 

" No, my Lady, I've seen him ! " 

" Have you anything to say to me ? " 

" Not just at present, my Lady." 

" Have you made any new discoveries 1 " 



BLEAK HOUSE. 669 

"A few, my Lady." 

This is merely in passing. She scarcely makes a stop, and 
sweeps up-stairs alone. Mr. Bucket, moving towards the staircase- 
foot, watches her as she goes up the steps the old man came down 
to his grave ; past murderous groups of statuary, repeated with 
their shadowy weapons on the wall ; past the printed bill, which 
she looks at going by ; out of view. 

"She's a lovely woman, too, she really is," says Mr. Bucket, 
coming back to Mercury. " Don't look quite healthy though." 

Is not quite healthy. Mercury informs him. Suffers much from 
headaches. 

Really ? That's a pity ! Walking, Mr. Bucket would recommend 
for that. Well, she tries walking. Mercury rejoins. Walks some- 
times for two hours, when she has them bad. By night, too. 

'' Are you sure you're quite so much as six foot three 1 " asks Mr. 
Bucket, " begging your pardon for interrupting you a moment ? " 

Not a doubt about it. 

"You're so well put together that I shouldn't have thought it. 
But the household troops, though considered fine men, are built so 
straggling. — Walks by night, does she 1 When it's moonlight, 
though ? " 

yes. When it's moonlight ! Of course. 0, of course ! Con- 
versational and acquiescent on both sides. 

" I suppose you ain't in the habit of walking, yourself?" says 
Mr. Bucket. "Not much time for it I should say?" 

Besides which. Mercury don't like it. Prefers carriage exercise. 

"To be sure," says Mr. Bucket. "That makes a difference. 
Now I think of it," says Mr. Bucket, warming his hands, and look- 
ing pleasantly at the blaze, " she went out walking, the very night 
of this business." 

"To be sure she did ! I let her into the garden over the way." 
• "And left her there. Certainly you did. I saw -you doing it." 

"I didn't see i/ou," says Mercury. 

" I was rather in a hurry," returns Mr. Bucket, " for I was going 
to visit a aunt of mine that lives at Chelsea — next door but two 
to the old original Bun House — ninety year old the old lady is, a 
single woman, and got a little property. Yes, I chanced to be 
passing at the time. Let's see. What time might it be? It 
wasn't ten." 

"Half-past nine." 

" You're right. So it was. And if I don't deceive myself, my 
Lady was muffled in a loose black mantle, with a deep fringe to it ? " 

" Of course she was." 

Of course she was. Mr. Bucket must return to a little work he 




SHADOW. 



BLEAK HOUSE. 671 

has to get on with up-stairs ; but he must shake hands with Mer- 
cury in acknowledgment of his agreeable conversation, and will 
he — this is all he asks — will he, when he has a leisure half-hour, 
think of bestowing it on that Royal Academy sculptor, for the 
advantage of both parties ? 



CHAPTER LIV. 

SPRINGING A MINE. 

Refreshed by sleep, Mr. Bucket rises betimes in the morning, 
and prepares for a field-day. Smartened up by the aid of a clean 
shirt and a wet hair-brush, with which instrument, on occasions of 
ceremony, he lubricates such thin locks as remain to him after his 
life of severe study, Mr. Bucket lays in a breakfast of two mutton 
chops as a foundation to work upon, together with tea, eggs, toast, 
and marmalade, on a corresponding scale. Having much enjoyed 
these strengthening matters, and having held subtle conference with 
his familiar demon, he confidentially instructs Mercury "just to 
mention quietly to Sir Leicester Dedlock, Baronet, that whenever 
he's ready for me, I'm ready for him." A gracious message being 
returned, that Sir Leicester will expedite his dressing and join Mr. 
Bucket in the library within ten minutes, Mr. Bucket repairs to 
that apartment ; and stands before the fire, with his finger on his 
chin, looking at the blazing coals. 

Thoughtful Mr. Bucket is ; as a man may be, with weighty work 
to do ; but composed, sure, confident. From the expression of his 
face, he might be a famous whist-player for a large stake — say a 
hundred guineas certain — with the game in his hand, but with 
a high reputation involved in his playing his hand out to the last 
card, in a masterly way. Not in the least anxious or disturbed is 
Mr. Bucket, when Sir Leicester appears ; but he eyes the baronet 
aside as he comes slowly to his easy chair, with that observant 
gravity of yesterday, in which there might have been yesterday, 
but for the audacity of the idea, a touch of compassion. 

" I am sorry to have kept you Avaiting, officer, but I am rather 
later than my usual hour this morning. I am not well. The 
agitation, and the indignation from which I have recently suffered, 
have been too much for me. I am subject to — gout ; " Sir 
Leicester was going to say indisposition, and would have said it to 
anybody else, but Mr. Bucket palpably knows all about it; "and 
recent circumstances have brought it on." 

As he takes his seat with some difficulty, and with an air of 



672 BLEAK HOUSE. 

pain, Mr. Bucket draws a little nearer, standing with one of his 
large hands on the library table. 

"I am not aware, officer," Sir Leicester observes, raising his eyes 
to his face, " whether you wish us to be alone ; but that is entirely 
as you please. If you do, well and good. If not, Miss Dedlock 
would be interested " 

" Why, Sir Leicester Dedlock, Baronet," returns Mr. Bucket, 
with his head persuasively on one side, and his forefinger pendant 
at one ear like an ear-ring, " we can't be too private, just at pres- 
ent. You will presently see that we can't be too private. A lady, 
under any circumstances, and especially in Miss Dedlock's elevated 
station of society, can't but be agreeable to me ; but speaking 
without a view to myself, I will take the liberty of assuring you 
that I know we can't be too private." 

" That is enough." 

"So much so. Sir Leicester Dedlock, Baronet," Mr. Bucket 
resumes, " that I was on the point of asking your permission to 
turn the key in the door." 

" By all means." Mr. Bucket skilfully and softly takes that 
precaution ; stooping on his knee for a moment, from mere force of 
habit, so to adjust the key in the lock as that no one shall peep in 
from the outer side. 

"Sir Leicester Dedlock, Baronet, I mentioned yesterday evening, 
that I wanted but a very little to complete this case. I have now 
completed it, and collected proof against the person who did this' 
crime." i 

"Against the soldier?" I 

" No, Sir Leicester Dedlock ; not the soldier." ' 

Sir Leicester looks astounded, and inquires, " Is the man in' 
custody?" ' j 

Mr. Bucket tells him, after a pause, "It was a woman." | 

Sir Leicester leans back in his chair, and breathlessly ejaculates,! 
" Good heaven ! " j 

" Now, Sir Leicester Dedlock, Baronet," Mr. Bucket begins, 
standing over him with one hand spread out on the library table, 
and the forefinger of the other in impressive use, "it's my duty to 
prepare you for a train of circumstances that may, and I go so far 
as to say that will, give you a shock. But Sir Leicester Dedlock, 
Baronet, you are a gentleman ; and I know what a gentleman is, 
and what a gentleman is capable of. A gentleman can bear a shock, 
when it must come, boldly and steadily. A gentleman can make 
up his mind to stand up against almost any blow. Why, take your- 
self, Sir Leicester Dedlock, Baronet. If there's a blow to be in- 
flicted on you, you naturally think of your family. You ask yourself, 



BLEAK HOUSE. 673 

how would all them ancestors of yours, away to Julius Caesar — not 
to go beyond him at present — have borne that blow; you remem- 
ber scores of them that would have borne it well ; and you bear it 
well on their accounts, and to maintain the family credit. That's 
the way you argue, and that's the way you act, Sir Leicester Ded- 
lock. Baronet." 

Sir Leicester, leaning back in his chair, and grasping the elbows, 
sits looking at him with a stony face. 

"Now, Sir Leicester Dedlock," proceeds Mr. Bucket, "thus pre- 
paring you, let me beg of you not to trouble your mind, for a moment, 
as to anything having come to tny knowledge. I know so much 
about so many characters, high and low, that a piece of information 
more or less, don't signify a straw. I don't sup^jose there's a move 
on the board that would surprise me: and as to this or that move 
having taken place, why my knowing it is no odds at all ; any pos- 
sible move whatever (provided it's in a wrong direction) being a 
probable move according to my experience. Therefore what I say 
to you, Sir Leicester Dedlock, Baronet, is, don't you go and let 
yourself be put out of the way, because of my knowing anything of 
your family affairs." 

" I thank you for your preparation," returns Sir Leicester, after 
a silence, without moving hand, foot, or feature ; " which I hope 
is not necessary, though I give it credit for being well intended. 
Be so good as to go or. Also ; " Sir Leicester seems to shrink in 
the shadow of his figure ; " also, to take a seat, if you have no 
objection." 

None at all. Mr. Bucket brings a chair, and diminishes his 
shadow. "Now, Sir Leicester Dedlock, Baronet, with this short 
preface, I come to the point. Lady Dedlock " 

Sir Leicester raises himself in his seat, and stares at him fiercely. 
Mr. Bucket brings the finger into play as an emollient. 

" Lady Dedlock, you see, she's universally admired. That's what 
her LadyshijD is; she's universally admired," says Mr. Bucket. 

"I would greatly prefer, officer," Sir Leicester returns, stiffly, 
"my Lady's name being entirely omitted from this discussion." 

"So would I, Sir Leicester Dedlock, Baronet, but — it's impos- 
sible." 

"Impossible?" 

Mr. Bucket shakes his relentless head. 

"Sir Leicester Dedlock, Baronet, it's altogether impossible. 
What I have got to say, is about her Ladyship. She is the 
pivot it all turns on." 

" Officer," retorts Sir Leicester, with a fiery eye, and a quivering 
lip, "you know your duty. Do your duty; but be careful not to 

2x 



674 BLEAK HOUSE. 

overstep it. I would not suffer it. I would not endure it. You 
bring my Lady's name into this communication, upon your responsi- 
bility — upon your responsibility. My Lady's name is not a name 
for common persons to trifle with ! " 

" Sir Leicester Dedlock, Baronet, I say what I must say ; and 
no more." 

" I hope it may prove so. Very well. Go on. Go on, sir ! " 

Glancing at the angry eyes which now avoid him, and at the 
angry figure trembling from head to foot, yet striving to be still, 
Mr. Bucket feels his way with his forefinger, and in a low voice 
proceeds. 

" Sir Leicester Dedlock, Baronet, it becomes my duty to tell 
you that the deceased Mr. Tulkinghorn long entertained mistrusts 
and suspicions of Lady Dedlock." 

" If he had dared to breathe them to me, sir — which he never 
did — I would have killed him myself ! " exclaims Sir Leicester, 
striking his hand upon the table. But, in the very heat and fury 
of the act, he stops, fixed by the knowing eyes of Mr. Bucket, 
whose forefinger is slowly going, and who, with mingled confidence 
and patience, shakes his head. 

" Sir Leicester Dedlock, the deceased Mr. Tulkinghorn was deep 
and close ; and what he fully had in his mind in the very begin- 
ning, I can't quite take upon myself to say. But I know from his 
lips, that he long ago suspected Lady Dedlock of having discov- 
ered, through the sight of some handwriting — in this very house, 
and when you yourself. Sir Leicester Dedlock, were present — the 
existence, in great poverty, of a certain person, who had been her 
lover before you courted her, and who ought to have been her hus- 
band;" Mr. Bucket stops, and deliberately repeats, "ought to 
have been her husband ; not a doubt about it. I know from his 
lips, that when that person soon afterwards died, he suspected 
Lady Dedlock of visiting his wretched lodging, and his wretcheder 
grave, alone and in secret. I know from my own inquiries, and 
through my eyes and ears, that Lady Dedlock did make such visit, 
in the dress of her own maid ; for the deceased Mr. Tulkinghorn 
employed me to reckon up her Ladyship — if you'll excuse my 
making use of the term we commonly employ — and I reckoned 
her up, so far, completely. I confronted the maid, in the chambers 
in Lincoln's Inn Fields, with a Avitness who had been Lady Ded- 
lock's guide ; and there couldn't be the shadow of a doubt that she 
had worn the young woman's dress, unknown to her. Sir Leicester 
Dedlock, Baronet, I did endeavour to pave the way a little towards 
these unpleasant disclosures, yesterday, by saying that very strange 
things happened even in high families sometimes. All this, and 



BLEAK HOUSE. 675 

more, has happened in your own family, and to and through your 
own Lady. It's my beUef that the deceased Mr. Tulkinghorn 
followed up these inquiries to the hour of his death; and that he 
and Lady Dedlock even had bad blood between them upon the 
matter, that very night. Now, only you put that to Lady Dedlock, 
Sir Leicester Dedlock, Baronet ; and ask her Ladyship whether, 
even after he had left here, she didn't go down to his chambers 
with the intention of saying something further to him, dressed in 
a loose black mantle with a deep fringe to it." 

Sir Leicester sits like a statue, gazing at the cruel finger that is 
probing the life-blood of his heart. 

"You put that to her Ladyship, Sir Leicester Dedlock, Baronet, 
from me, Inspector Bucket of the Detective. And if her Ladyship 
makes any difficulty about admitting of it, you tell her that it's no 
use ; that Inspector Bucket knows it, and knows that she passed 
the soldier as you called him (though he's not in the army now), 
and knows that she knows she passed him, on the staircase. Now, 
Sir Leicester Dedlock, Baronet, why do I relate all this ? " 

Sir Leicester, who has covered his face with his hands, uttering 
a single groan, requests him to pause for a moment. By-and-bye, 
he takes his hands away ; and so preserves his dignity and outward 
calmness, though there is no more colour in his face than in his 
white hair, that Mr. Bucket is a little awed by him. Something 
frozen and fixed is upon his manner, over and above its usual shell 
of haughtiness ; and Mr. Bucket soon detects an unusual slowness 
in his speech, with now and then a curious trouble in beginning, 
which occasions him to utter inarticulate sounds. With such 
sounds, he now breaks silence ; soon, however, controlling himself 
to say, that he does not comprehend why a gentleman so faithful 
and zealous as the late Mr. Tulkinghorn should have communi- 
cated to him nothing of this painful, this distressing, this unlooked- 
for, this overwhelming, this incredible intelligence. 

"Again, Sir Leicester Dedlock, Baronet," returns Mr. Bucket, 
" put it to her Ladyship to clear that up. Put it to her Ladyship, 
if you think right, from Inspector Bucket of the Detective. You'll 
find, or I'm much mistaken, that the deceased Mr. Tulkinghorn had 
the intention of communicating the whole to you, as soon as he con- 
sidered it ripe ; and further, that he had given her Ladyship so to 
understand. Why, he might have been going to reveal it on the 
very morning when I examined the body ! You don't know what 
I'm going to say and do, five minutes from this present time. Sir 
Leicester Dedlock, Baronet ; and supposing I was to be picked ofi" 
now, you might wonder why I hadn't done it, don't you see ? " 

True. Sir Leicester, avoiding, with some trouble, those obtru- 



676 BLEAK HOUSE. 

sive sounds, says, " True." At this juncture, a considerable noise 
of voices is heard in the hall. Mr. Bucket, after listening, goes 
to the library-door, softly unlocks and opens it, and listens again. 
Then he draws in his head, and whispers, hurriedly, but compos- 
edly, "Sir Leicester Dedlock, Baronet, this unfortunate family 
affair has taken air, as I expected it might; the deceased Mr. 
Tulkinghorn being cut down so sudden. The chance to hush it, 
is to let in these people now in a wrangle with your footmen. 
Would you mind sitting quiet — on the family account — while I 
reckon 'em up ? And would you just throw in a nod, when I seem 
to ask you for it ? " 

Sir Leicester indistinctly answers, " Officer. The best you can, 
the best you can ! " and Mr. Bucket, with a nod and a sagacious 
crook of the forefinger, slips down into the hall, where the voices 
quickly die away. He is not long in returning, a few paces ahead 
of Mercury, and a brother deity also powdered and in peach- 
blossom smalls, who bear between them a chair in which is an 
incapable old man. Another man and two women come behind. 
Directing the pitching of the chair, in an affixble and easy manner, 
Mr. Bucket dismisses the Mercuries, and locks the door again. 
Sir Leicester looks on at this invasion of the sacred precincts with 
an icy stare. 

" Now, perhaps you may know me, ladies and gentlemen," says 
Mr. Bucket, in a confidential voice. "I am Inspector Bucket of 
the Detective, I am ; and this," producing the tip of his conven- 
ient little staff" from his breast-pocket, " is my authority. Now, 
you wanted to see Sir Leicester Dedlock, Baronet. "Well ! You 
do see him ; and, mind you, it ain't every one as is admitted to 
that honour. Your name, old gentleman, is Smallweed ; that's 
what your name is ; I know it well." 

" Well, and you never heard any harm of it ! " cries Mr. Small- 
weed in a shrill loud voice. • 

" You don't happen to know why they killed the pig, do you 1 " ' 
retorts Mr. Bucket, with a steadfast look, but without loss of 
temper. 

"No!" 

"Why, they killed him," says Mr. Bucket, "on account of his 
having so much cheek. Don't pou get into the same position, ' 
because it isn't worthy of you. You ain't in the habit of convers- 
ing with a deaf person, are you ? " 

"Yes," snarls Mr. Smallweed, "my wife's deaf." 

" That accounts for your pitching your voice so high. But as 
she ain't here, just pitch it an octave or two lower, will you, and 
I'll not only be obliged to you, but it'll do you more credit," says 



BLEAK HOUSE. 677 

Mr. Bucket. "This other gentleman is in the preaching line, 
I think?" 

" Name of Chadband," Mr. Smallweed puts in, speaking hence- 
forth in a much lower key. 

"Once had a friend and brother Serjeant of the same name," 
says Mr. Bucket, offering his hand, "and consequently feel a 
liking for it. Mrs. Chadband, no doubt ? " 

"And Mrs. Snagsby," Mr. Smallweed introduces. 

" Husband a law stationer, and a friend of my own," says Mr. 
Bucket. " Love him like a brother ! — Now, what's up 1 " 

"Do you mean what business have we come upon?" Mr. 
Smallweed asks, a little dashed by the suddenness of this turn. 

" Ah ! You know what I mean. Let us hear what it's all 
about in presence of Sir Leicester Dedlock, Baronet. Come." 

_ Mr. Smallweed, beckoning Mr. Chadband, takes a moment's 
counsel with him in a whisper. Mr. Chadband, expressing a con- 
siderable amount of oil from the pores of his forehead and the 
palms of his hands, says aloud, " Yes. You first ! " and retires 
to his former place. 

" I was the client and friend of Mr. Tulkinghorn," pipes Grand- 
father Smallweed, then ; "I did business with him. I was useful 
to him, and he was useful to me. Krook, dead and gone, was my 
brother-in-law. He was own brother to a brimstone magpie — 
leastways Mrs. Smallweed. I come in to Krook's property. I 
examined all his papers and all his effects. They was all dug out 
under my eyes. There was a bundle of letters belonging to a dead 
and gone lodger, as was hid away at the back of a shelf in the 
side of Lady Jane's bed — his cat's bed. He hid all manner of 
things away, everywheres. Mr. Tulkinghorn wanted 'em and got 
'em, but I looked 'em over first. I'm a man of business, and I 
took a squint at 'em They was letters fi'om the lodger's sweet- 
heart, and she signed Honoria. Dear me, that's not a common 
name, Honoria, is it? There's no lady in this house that signs 
Honoria, is there ? no, I don't think so ! no, I don't think 
so ! And not in the same hand, perhaps ? no, I don't think 
so!" 

Here Mr. Smallweed, seized with a fit of coughing in the midst 
of his triumph, breaks off to ejaculate " dear me ! Lord ! 
I'm shaken all to pieces ! " 

" Now, when you're ready," says Mr. Bucket, after awaiting his 
recovery, " to come to anything that concerns Sir Leicester Dedlock, 
Baronet, here the gentleman sits, you know." 

" Haven't I come to it, Mr. Bucket ? " cries Grandfather Small- 
weed. " Isn't the gentleman concerned yet ? Not with Captain 



678 BLEAK HOUSE. 

Hawdon and his ever affectionate Honoria, and their child into the 
bargain ? Come, then, I want to know where those letters are. 
That concerns me, if it don't concern Sir Leicester Dedlock. I will 
know where they are. I won't have 'em disaj^j^ear so quietly. 
I handed 'em over to my friend and solicitor, Mr. Tulkinghorn ; 
not to anybody else." 

"Why, he paid you for them, you know, and handsome too," 
says Mr. Bucket. 

"I don't care for that. I want to know who's got 'em. And 
I tell you what we want — what we all here want, Mr. Bucket. 
We want more pains-taking and search-making into this murder. 
We know where the interest and the motive was, and you have 
not done enough. If George the vagabond dragoon had any hand 
in it, he was only an accomplice, and was set on. You know what 
I mean as well as any man." 

"Now I tell you what," says Mr. Bucket, instantaneously alter- 
ing his manner, coming close to him, and communicating an ex- 
traordinary fascination to the forefinger, "I am damned if I am 
a going to have my case spoilt, or interfered with, or anticipated 
by so much as half a second of time, by any human being in crea- 
tion. You want more pains-taking and search-making ? You do 1 
Do you see this hand, and do you think that / don't know the 
right time to stretch it out, and put it on the arm that fired that 
shot 1 " 

Such is the dread power of the man, and so terribly evident it 
is that he makes no idle boast, that Mr. Smallweed begins to 
apologise. Mr. Bucket, dismissing his sudden anger, checks him. 

"The advice I give you is, don't you trouble your head about 
the murder. That's my afiair. You keep half an eye on the 
newspapers ; and I shouldn't wonder if you was to read something 
about it before long, if you look sharp. I know my business, and . 
that's all I've got to say to you on that subject. Now about those 
letters. You want to know who's got 'em. I don't mind telling 
you. / have got 'em. Is that the packet 1 " 

Mr. Smallweed looks, with greedy eyes, at the little bundle Mr. . 
Bucket produces from a mysterious part of his coat, and identifies ; 
it as the same. i 

" What have you got to say next 1 " asks Mr. Bucket. " Now, | 
don't ojDen your mouth too wide, because you don't look handsome ' 
when you do it." 

" I want five hundred pound." 

" No, you don't ; you mean fifty," says Mr. Bucket, humorously. 

It appears, however, that Mr. Smallweed means five hundred. 

" That is, I am deputed by Sir Leicester Dedlock, Baronet, to 



BLEAK HOUSE. 679 

consider (without admitting or promising anything) this bit of busi- 
ness," says Mr. Bucket ; Sir Leicester mechanically bows his head ; 
" and you ask me to consider a proposal of five hundred pound. 
Why, it's an unreasonable proposal ! Two fifty would be bad 
enough, but better than that. Hadn't you better say two fifty ? " 

Mr. Smallweed is quite clear that he had better not. 

" Then," says Mr. Bucket, " let's hear Mr. Chadband. Lord ! 
Many a time I've heard my old fellow-serjeant of that name ; and 
a moderate man he was in all respects, as ever I come across ! " 

Thus invited, Mr. Chadband steps forth, and, after a little sleek 
smiling and a little oil-grinding with the palms of his hands, de- 
livers himself as follows : 

"My friends, we are now — Rachael my wife, and I — in the 
mansions of the rich and great. Why are Ave now in the mansions 
of the rich and great, my friends ? Is it because we are invited 1 
Because we are bidden to feast with them, because we are bidden 
to rejoice with them, because we are bidden to play the lute with 
them, because we are bidden to dance with them? No. Then 
why are we here, my friends? Air we in possession of a sinful 
secret, and doe we require corn, and wine, and oil — or, what is 
much the same thing, money — for the keeping thereof? Prob- 
ably so, my friends." 

" You're a man of business, you are," returns Mr. Bucket, very 
attentive ; " and consequently you're going on to mention what the 
nature of your secret is. You are right. You couldn't do better." 

"Let us then, my brothei', in a spirit of love," says Mr. Chad- 
band, with a cunning eye, "proceed untoe it. Rachael my wife, 
advance ! " 

Mrs. Chadband, more than ready, so advances as to jostle her 
husband into the background, and confronts Mr. Bucket with a hard 
frowning smile. 

" Since you want to know what we know," says she, " I'll tell 
you. I helped to bring up Miss Hawdon, her Ladyship's daugh- 
ter. I was in the service of her Ladyship's sister, who was very 
sensitive to the disgrace her Ladyship brought upon her, and gave 
out, even to her Ladyship, that the child was dead — she was very 
nearly so — when she was born. But she's alive, and I know her." 
With these words, and a laugh, and laying a bitter stress on the 
word "Ladyship," Mrs. Chadband folds her arms, and looks impla- 
cably at Mr. Bucket. 

"I suppose now," returns that officer, " ^ou will be expecting a 
twenty-pound note, or a present of about that figure ? " 

Mrs. Chadband merely laughs, and contemptuously tells him he 
can "offer" twenty pence. 



680 BLEAK HOUSE. 

"My friend the law-stationer's good lady, over there," says Mr. 
Bucket, luring Mrs. Snagsby forward with the finger. " What may 
your game be, ma'am ? " 

Mrs. Snagsby is at first prevented, by tears and lamentations, 
from stating the nature of her game : but by degrees it confusedly 
comes to light, that she is a woman overwhelmed with injuries 
and wrongs, whom Mr. Snagsby has habitually deceived, aban- 
doned, and sought to keep in darkness, and whose chief comfort, 
under her afflictions, has been the sympathy of the late Mr. Tulk- 
inghorn; who showed so much commiseration for her, on one occa- 
sion of his calling in Cook's Court in the absence of her perjured 
husband, that she has of late habitually carried to him all her 
woes. Everybody, it appears, the present company excepted, has 
plotted against Mrs. Suagsby's peace. There is Mr. Guppy, clerk 
to Kenge and Carboy, who was at first as open as the sun at noon, 
but who suddenly shut up as close as midnight, under the influ- 
ence — no doubt — of Mr. Snagsby's suborning and tampering. 
There is Mr. Weevle, friend of Mr. Guppy, who lived mysteriously 
up a court, owing to the like coherent causes. There was Krook, 
deceased ; there was Nimrod, deceased ; and there was Jo, deceased ; 
and they were "all in it." In what, Mrs. Snagsby does not with 
particularity express ; but she knows that Jo was Mr. Snagsby's 
son, " as well as if a trumpet had spoken it," and she followed Mr. 
Snagsby when he went on his last visit to the boy, and if he was 
not his son why did he go ? The one occupation of her life has 
been, for some time back, to follow Mr. Snagsby to and fro, and 
up and down, and to piece suspicious circumstances together ■ — and 
every circumstance that has happened has been most suspicious ; 
and in this way she has pursued her object of detecting and con- 
founding her false husband, night and day. Thus did it come to 
pass that she brought the Chadbands and Mr. Tulkinghorn together, 
and conferred with Mr. Tulkinghorn on the change in Mr. Guppy, 
and helped to turn up the circumstances in which the present com- 
pany are interested, casually, by the wayside ; being still, and ever, 
on the great high road that is to terminate in Mr. Snagsby's full 
exposure, and a matrimonial separation. All this Mrs. Snagsby, as 
an injured woman, and the friend of Mrs. Chadband, and the fol- 
lower of Mr. Chadband, and the mourner of the late Mr. Tulking- 
horn, is here to certify under the seal of confidence, with every 
possible confusion, and involvement possible and impossible; hav- 
ing no pecuniary motive whatever, no scheme or project but the 
one mentioned ; and bringing here, and taking everywhere, her own 
dense atmosphere of dust, arising from the ceaseless working of her 
mill of jealousy. 



BLEAK HOUSE. 681 

While this exordium is in hand — and it takes some time — Mr. 
Bucket, who has seen through the transparency of Mrs. Snagsby's 
vinegar at a glance, confers with his familiar demon, and bestows 
his shrewd attention on the Chadbands and Mr. Smallweed. Sir 
Leicester Dedlock remains immovable, with the same icy surface 
upon him ; except that he once or twice looks towards Mr. Bucket, 
as relying on that officer alone of all mankind. 

"Very good," says Mr. Bucket. "Now I understand you, you 
know ; and, being deputed by Sir Leicester Dedlock, Baronet, to 
look into this little matter," again Sir Leicester mechanically 
bows in confirmation of the statement, " can give it my fair and 
full attention. Now I won't allude to Conspiring to extort money, 
or anything of that sort, because we are men and women of the 
world here, and our object is to make things pleasant. But I tell 
you what I do wonder at ; I am surprised that you should think 
of making a noise below in the hall. It was so opposed to your 
interests. That's what I look at." 

"We wanted to get in," pleads Mr. Smallweed. 

"Why, of course, you wanted to get in," Mr. Bucket assents 
with cheerfulness ; " but for a old gentleman at your time of life — ■ 
what I call truly venerable, mind you ! — with his wits sharpened, 
as I have no doubt they are, by the loss of the use of his limbs, 
which occasions all his animation to mount up into his head — 
not to consider, that if he don't keep such a business as the present 
as close as possible it can't be worth a mag to him, is so curious ! 
You see your temper got the better of you ; that's where you lost 
ground," says Mr. Bucket, in an argumentative and friendly way. 

" I only said I wouldn't go, without one of the servants came 
up to Sir Leicester Dedlock," returns Mr. Smallweed. 

" That's it ! That's where your temper got the better of you. 
Now, you keep it under another time, and you'll make money by 
it. Shall I ring for them to carry you dowm ? " 

" When are we to hear more of this % " Mrs. Chadband sternly 
demands. 

" Bless your heart for a true woman ! Always curious, your 
delightful sex is ! " replies Mr. Bucket, with gallantry. " I shall 
have the pleasure of giving you a call to-morrow or next day — 
not forgetting Mr. Smallweed and his proposal of two fifty." 

" Five hundred ! " exclaims Mr. Smallweed. 

"All right! Nominally five hundred;" Mr. Bucket has his 
hand on the bell-rope ; " shall I wish you good day for the pres- 
ent, on the part of myself and the gentleman of the house % " he 
asks in an insinuating tone. 

Nobody having the hardihood to object to his doing so, he does 



682 BLEAK HOUSE. 

it, and the party retire as they came up. Mr. Bucket follows 
them to the door ; and returning, says with an air of serious 
business : 

" Sir Leicester Dedlock, Baronet, it's for you to consider whether 
or not to buy this up. I should recommend, on the whole, its 
being bought up myself; and I think it may be bought pretty 
cheap. You see, that little pickled cowcumber of a Mrs. Suagsby 
has been used by all sides of the speculation, and has done a deal 
more harm in bringing odds and ends together than if she had 
meant it. Mr. Tulkinghorn, deceased, he held all these horses in 
his hand, and could have drove 'em his own way, I haven't a 
doubt ; but he was fetched off the box head-foremost, and now they 
have got their legs over the traces, and are all dragging and pulling 
their own ways. So it is, and such is life. The cat's away, and 
the mice they play; the frost breaks up, and the water runs. 
Now, with regard to the party to be apprehended." 

Sir Leicester seems to wake, though his eyes have been wide 
open ; and he looks intently at Mr. Bucket, as Mr. Bucket refers 
to his watch. 

" The party to be apprehended is now in this house," proceeds 
Mr. Bucket, putting up his watch with a steady hand, and with 
rising spirits, "and I'm about to take her into custody in your 
presence. Sir Leicester Dedlock, Baronet, don't you say a word, 
nor yet stir. There'll be no noise, and no disturbance at all. I'll 
come back in the course of the evening, if agreeable to you,- and 
endeavour to meet your wishes respecting this unfortunate family 
matter, and the nobbiest way of keeping it quiet. Now, Sir 
Leicester Dedlock, Baronet, don't you be nervous on account of the 
apprehension at present coming off. You shall see the whole case 
clear, from first to last." 

Mr. Bucket rings, goes to the door, briefly whispers Mercury, 
shuts the door, and stands behind it with his arms folded. After 
a suspense of a minute or two, the door slowly opens, and a French 
woman enters. Mademoiselle Hortense. 

The moment she is in the room, Mr. Bucket claps the door to, 
and puts his back against it. The suddenness of the noise occa- 
sions her to turn ; and then, for the first time, she sees Sir Leicester 
Dedlock in his chair. 

"I ask you pardon," she mutters hurriedly. "They tell me 
there was no one here." 

Her step towards the door brings her front to front with Mr. 
Bucket. Suddenly a spasm shoots across her face, and she turns 
deadly pale. 

" This is my lodger. Sir Leicester Dedlock," says Mr. Bucket, 



BLEAK HOUSE. 683 

nodding at her. " This foreign young woman has been my lodger 
for some weeks back." 

"What do Sir Leicester care for that, you think, my angel?" 
returns Mademoiselle, in a jocular strain. 

"Why, my angel," returns Mr. Bucket, "we shall see." 

Mademoiselle Hortense eyes him with a scowl upon her tight 
face, which gradually changes into a smile of scorn. " You are 
very mysterieuse. Are you dnuik 1 " 

" Tolerable sober, my angel," returns Mr. Bucket. 

" I come from arriving at this so detestable house with your 
wife. Your wife have left me, since some minutes. They tell me 
down-stairs that your wife is here. I come here, and your wife is 
not here. What is the intention of this fool's play, say then?" 
Mademoiselle demands, with her arms composedly crossed, but with 
something in her dark cheek beating like a clock. 

Mr. Bucket merely shakes the finger at her. 

" Ah my God, you are an unhappy idiot ! " cries Mademoiselle, 
with a toss of her head and a laugh. — "Leave me to pass down- 
stairs, great pig." With a stamp of her foot, and a menace. 

"Now, Mademoiselle," says Mr. Bucket, in a cool determined 
way, "you go and sit down upon that sofy." 

" I will not sit down upon nothing," she replies, with a shower 
of nods. 

"Now, Mademoiselle," repeats Mr. Bucket, making no demon- 
stration, except with the finger; "you sit down upon that sofy." 

" Why 1 " 

" Because I take you into custody on a charge of murder, and 
you don't need to be told it. Now, I want to be polite to one of 
your sex and a foreigner, if I can. If I can't, I must be rough ; 
and there's rougher ones outside. What I am to be, depends on 
you. So I recommend j'ou, as a friend, afore another half a blessed 
moment has passed over your head, to go and sit down upon that 
sofy." 

Mademoiselle complies, saying in a concentrated voice, while 
that something in her cheek beats fast and hard, "You are a 
Devil." 

"Now, you see," Mr. Bucket proceeds approvingly, "you're 
comfortable, and conducting yourself as I should expect a foreign 
young woman of your sense to do. So I'll give you a piece of 
advice, and it's this. Don't you talk too much. You're not expected 
to say anything here, and you can't keep too quiet a tongue in your 
head. In short, the less you Parlay, the better, you know." Mr. 
Bucket is very complacent over this French explnnation. 

Mademoiselle, with that tigerish expansion of the mouth, and 



684 BLEAK HOUSE. 

her black eyes darting fire upon him, sits upright on the sofa in a 
rigid state, with her hands clenched — and her feet too, one might 
suppose — muttering, " 0, you Bucket, you are a Devil ! " 

"Now, Sir Leicester Dedlock, Baronet," says Mr. Bucket, and 
from this time forth the finger never rests, "this young woman, my 
lodger, was her Ladyship's maid at the time I have mentioned to 
you ; and this young woman, besides being extraordinary vehement 
and passionate against her Ladyship after being discharged " 

" Lie ! " cries Mademoiselle. " I discharge myself." 

" Now, why don't you take my advice ? " returns Mr. Bucket, 
in an impressive, almost in an imploring tone. " I'm surprised at 
the indiscreetness you commit. You'll say something that'll be 
used against you, you know. You're sure to come to it. Never 
you mind what I say, till it's given in evidence. It's not addressed 
to you." 

" Discharge, too ! " cries Mademoiselle, furiously, " by her Lady- 
ship ! Eh, my faith, a pretty Ladyship ! Why, I r-r-r-ruin my 
character by remaining with a Ladyship so infame ! " 

"Upon my soul I wonder at you!" Mr. Bucket remonstrates. 
" I thought the French were a polite nation, I did, really. Yet to 
hear a female going on like that, before Sir Leicester Dedlock, 
Baronet ! " 

" He is a poor abused ! " cries Mademoiselle. " I spit upon his 
house, upon his name, upon his imbecility," all of which she makes 
the carpet represent. "Oh, that he is a great man! yes, 
superb ! heaven ! Bah ! " 

" Well, Sir Leicester Dedlock," proceeds Mr. Bucket, " this intem- 
perate foreigner also angrily took it into her head that she had 
established a claim upon Mr. Tulkinghorn, deceased, by attending 
on the occasion I told you of, at his chambers ; though she was 
liberally paid for her time and trouble." 

" Lie ! " cries Mademoiselle. " I ref-use his money alltogezzer." 

("If you ivill Parlay, you know," says Mr. Bucket, parentheti- 
cally, "you must take the consequences.) Now, whether she be- 
came my lodger. Sir Leicester Dedlock, with any deliberate intention 
then of doing this deed and blinding me, I give no opinion on ; 
but she lived in my house, in that capacity, at the time that 
she was hovering about the chambers of the deceased Mr. Tulk- 
inghorn with a view to a wrangle, and likewise persecuting and 
half frightening the life out of an unfortunate stationer." 

" Lie ! " cries Mademoiselle. " All lie ! " 

" The murder was committed. Sir Leicester Dedlock, Baronet, 
and you know under what circumstances. Now, I beg of you to 
follow me close with your attention for a minute or two. I was 



BLEAK HOUSE. 685 

sent for, and the case was entrasted to me. I examined the place, 
and the body, and the papers, and everything. From information 
I received (from a clerk in the same house) I took George into 
custody, as having been seen hanging about there, on the night, 
and at very nigh the time, of the murder ; also, as having been 
overheard in high words with the deceased on former occasions — 
even threatening him, as the witness made out. If you ask me. 
Sir Leicester Dedlock, whether from the first I believed George to 
be the murderer, I tell you candidly No ; but he might be, not- 
withstanding ; and there was enough against him to make it 
my duty to take him, and get him kept under remand. Now, 
observe ! " 

As Mr. Bucket bends forward in some excitement — for him — 
and inaugurates what he is going to say with one ghostly beat of 
his forefinger in the air, Mademoiselle Hortense fixes her black 
eyes upon him with a dark frown, and sets her dry lips closely and 
firmly together. 

" I went home, Sir Leicester Dedlock, Baronet, at night, and 
found this young woman having supper with my wife, Mrs. Bucket. 
She had made a mighty show of being fond of Mrs. Bucket from 
her first off'ering herself as our lodger, but that night she made 
more than ever — in fact, overdid it. Likewise she overdid her 
respect, and all that, for the lamented memory of the deceased 
Mr. Tulkinghorn. By the living Lord it flashed upon me, as I 
sat opposite to her at the table and saw her with a knife in her 
hand, that she had done it ! " 

Mademoiselle is hardly audible, in straining through her teeth 
and lips the words "You are a Devil." 

" Now where," pursues Mr. Bucket, "had she been on the night 
of the murder 1 She had been to the theayter. (She really was 
there, I have since found, both before the deed and after it.) I 
knew I had an artful customer to deal with, and that proof would 
be very difficult ; and I laid a trap for her — such a trap as I 
never laid yet, and such a ventur as I never made yet. I worked 
it out in my mind while I was talking to her at supper. When 
I went up-stairs to bed, our house being small and this young 
woman's ears sharp, I stuffed the sheet into Mrs. Bucket's mouth 
that she shouldn't say a word of surprise, and told her all about 
it. — My dear, don't you give your mind to that again, or I shall 
link your feet together at the ankles." Mr. Bucket, breaking off", 
has made a noiseless descent upon Mademoiselle, and laid his 
heavy hand upon her shoulder. 

" What is the matter with you now 1 " she asks him. 

"Don't you think any more," returns Mr. Bucket, with admoni- 



686 BLEAK HOUSE. 

tory finger, " of throwing yourself out of window. That's what's 
the matter with me. Come ! Just take my arm. You needn't 
get up ; I'll sit down by you. Now take my arm, will you. I'm 
a married man, you know; you're acquainted with my wife. Just 
take my arm." 

Vainly endeavouring to moisten those dry lips, with a painful 
sound, she struggles with herself, and complies. 

"Now we're all right again. Sir Leicester Dedlock, Baronet, 
this case could never have been the case it is, but for Mrs. Bucket, 
who is a woman in fifty thousand — in a hundred and fifty thou- 
sand ! To throw this young woman off her guard, I have never 
set foot in our house since ; though I've communicated with Mrs. 
Bucket, in the baker's loaves and in the milk, as often as required. 
My whispered words to Mrs. Bucket, when she had the sheet in 
her mouth, were, 'My dear, can you throw her off" continually 
with natural accounts of my suspicions against George, and this, 
and that, and t'other 1 Can you do without rest, and keep watch 
upon her, night and day ? Can you undertake to say. She shall do 
nothing without my knowledge, she shall be my prisoner without 
suspecting it, she shall no more escape from me than from death, 
and her life shall be my life, and her soul my soul, till I have got 
her, if she did this murder?" Mrs. Bucket says to me, as well 
as she could speak, on account of the sheet, ' Bucket, I can ! ' 
And she has acted up to it glorious ! " 

" Lies ! " Mademoiselle interposes. "All lies, my friend ! " 

" Sir Leicester Dedlock, Baronet, how did my calculations come 
out under these circumstances 1 When I calculated that this im- 
petuous young woman would overdo it in new directions, was I 
wrong or right 1 I was right. What does she try to do ? Don't 
let it give you a turn ! To throw the murder on her Ladyship." 

Sir Leicester rises from his chair, and staggers down again. 

"And she got encouragement in it from hearing that I was 
always here, which was done a' purpose. Now, open that pocket- 
book of mine, Sir Leicester Dedlock, if I may take the liberty of 
throwing it towards you, and look at the letters sent to me, each 
with the two words. Lady Dedlock, in it. Open the one directed 
to yourself, which I stopped this very morning, and read the three 
words. Lady Dedlock, Mukderess, in it. These letters have 
been falling about like a shower of lady-birds. What do you say 
now to Mrs. Bucket, from her spy-place, having seen them all 
written by this young woman 1 What do you say to Mrs. Bucket 
having, within this half-hour, secured the corresponding ink and 
paper, fellow half-sheets and what not ? What do you say to Mrs. 
Bucket having watched the posting of 'em every one by this young 



BLEAK HOUSE. 687 

woman, Sir Leicester Dedlock, Baronet?" Mr. Bucket asks, tri- 
umphant in his admiration of his lady's genius. 

Two things are especially observable, as Mr. Bucket proceeds to 
a conclusion. First, that he seems imperceptibly to establish a 
dreadful right of property in Mademoiselle. Secondly, that the 
very atmosphere she breatlaes seems to narrow and contract about 
her, as if a close net, or a pall, were being drawn nearer and yet 
nearer around her breathless figure. 

" There is no doubt that her Ladyship was on the spot at the 
eventful period," says Mr. Bucket ; " and my foreign friend here saw 
her, I believe, from the upper part of the staircase. Her Lady- 
ship and George and my foreign friend were all pretty close on one 
another's heels. But that don't signify any more, so I'll not go 
into it. I found the wadding of the pistol with which the deceased 
Mr. Tulkinghorn was shot. It was a bit of the printed description 
of your house at Chesney Wold. Not much in that, you'll say, Sir 
Leicester Dedlock, Baronet. No. But when my foreign friend 
here is so thoroughly off her guard as to think it a safe time 
to tear up the rest of that leaf, and when Mrs. Bucket puts the 
pieces together and finds the wadding wanting, it begins to look 
like Queer street." 

"These are very long lies," Mademoiselle interposes. "You 
prose great deal. Is it that you have almost all finished, or are 
you speaking always 1 " 

"Sir Leicester Dedlock, Baronet," proceeds Mr. Bucket, who 
delights in a full title, and does violence to himself when he dis- 
penses with any fragment of it, " the last point in the case which 
I am now going to mention, shows the necessity of patience in our 
business, and never doing a thing in a hurry. I watched this 
young woman yesterday, without her knowledge, when she was 
looking at the funeral, in company with my wife, who planned to 
take her there ; and I had so much to convict her, and I saw such 
an expression in her face, and my mind so rose against her malice 
towards her Ladyship, and the time was altogether such a time for 
bringing down what you may call retribution upon her, that if I 
had been a younger hand with less experience, I should have taken 
her, certain. Equally, last night, when her Ladyship, as is so 
universally admired I am sure, come home, looking — why, Lord ! 
a man might almost say like Venus rising from the ocean, it was 
so unpleasant and inconsistent to think of her being charged with 
a murder of which she was innocent, that I felt quite to want to 
put an end to the job. What should I have lost 1 Sir Leicester 
Dedlock, Baronet, I should have lost the weapon. My prisoner 
here proposed to Mrs. Bucket, after the departure of the funeral, 



688 BLEAK HOUSE. 

that they should go, per buss, a little ways into the country, and 
take tea at a very decent house of entertainment. Now, near 
that house of entertainment there's a piece of water. At tea, my 
prisoner got up to fetch her pocket-handkercher from the bed-room 
where the bonnets was ; she was rather a long time gone, and 
came back a little out of wind. As soon as they came home this 
was reported to me by Mrs. Bucket, along with her observations 
and suspicions. I had the piece of water dragged by moonlight, in 
presence of a couple of our men, and the pocket-pistol was brought 
up before it had been there half-a-dozen hours. Now, my dear, 
put your arm a little further through mine, and hold it steady, and 
I shan't hurt you ! " 

In a trice Mr. Bucket snaps a handcufl' on her wrist. " That's 
one," says Mr. Bucket. " Now the other, darling. Two, and all 
told ! " 

He rises j she rises too. "Where," she asks him, darkening 
her large eyes until their drooping lids almost conceal them — and 
yet they stare, " where is your false, your treacherous and cursed 
wife 1 " 

"She's gone forrard to the Police Office," returns Mr. Bucket. 
" You'll see her there, my dear." 

"I would like to kiss her!" exclaims Mademoiselle Hortense, 
panting tigress-like. 

"You'd bite her, I suspect," says Mr. Bucket. 

" I would ! " making her eyes very large. " I would love to 
tear her, limb from limb." 

" Bless you, darling," says Mr. Bucket, with the greatest com- 
posure ; " I'm fully prepared to hear that. Your sex have such a 
surprising animosity against one another, when you do differ. You 
don't mind me half so much, do you ? " 

" No. Though you are a Devil still." 

" Angel and devil by turns, eh 1 " cries Mr. Bucket. " But I am 
in my regular employment, you must consider. Let me put your 
shawl tidy. I've been lady's maid to a good many before now. 
Anything wanting to the bonnet 1 There's a cab at the door." 

Mademoiselle Hortense, casting an indignant eye at the glass, 
shakes herself perfectly neat in one shake, and looks, to do her jus- 
tice, uncommonly genteel.. 

"Listen then, my angel," says she, after several sarcastic nods. 
" You are very spiritual. But can you res-tore him back to life 1 " 

Mr. Bucket answers " Not exactly." 

" That is droll. Listen yet one time. You are very spiritual. 
Can you make a honourable lady of Her 1 " 

"Don't be so malicious," says Mr. Bucket. 



BLEAK HOUSE. 689 

" Or a haughty gentleman of Him ? " cries Mademoiselle, referring 
to Sir Leicester with ineffable disdain. " Eh ! then regard him ! 
The poor infant ! Ha ! ha ! ha ! " 

"Come, come, why this is worse Parlaying than the other," says 
Mr. Bucket. " Come along ! " 

"You cannot do these things? Then you can do as you please 
with me. It is but the death, it is all the same. Let us go, my 
angel. Adieu you old man, grey. I pity you, and I des-pise you ! " 

With these last words, she snaps her teeth together, as if her 
mouth closed with a spring. It is impossible to describe how Mr. 
Bucket gets her out, but he accomplishes that feat in a manner 
peculiar to himself; enfolding and pervading her like a cloud, and 
hovering away with her as if he were a homely Jupiter, and she the 
object of his affections. 

Sir Leicester, left alone, remains in the same attitude as though 
he were still listening, and his attention were still occupied. At 
length he gazes round the empty room, and finding it deserted, rises 
unsteadily to his feet, pushes back his chair, and walks a few steps, 
supporting himself by the table. Then he stops ; and, with more of 
those inarticulate sounds, lifts up his eyes and seems to stare at 
something. 

Heaven knows what he sees. The green, green woods of Ches- 
ney Wold, the noble house, the pictures of his forefathers, strangers 
defacing them, officers of police coarsely handling his most precious 
heirlooms, thousands of fingers pointing at him, thousands of faces 
sneering at him. But if such shadows flit before him to his bewil- 
derment, there is one other shadow which he can name with some- 
thing like distinctness even yet, and to which alone he addresses 
his tearing of his white hair, and his extended arms. 

It is she, in association with whom, saving that she has been for 
years a main fibre of the root of his dignity and pride, he has never 
had a selfish thought. It is she whom he has loved, admired, 
honoured, and set up for the world to respect. It is she, who, at the 
core of all the constrained formalities and conventionalities of his 
life, has been a stock of living tenderness and love, susceptible as 
nothing else is of being struck with the agony he feels. He sees 
her, almost to the exclusion of himself; and cannot bear to look 
upon her cast down from the high jilace she has graced so well. 

And, even to the point of his sinking on the ground, oblivious of 
his suffering, he can yet pronounce her name with something like 
distinctness in the midst of those intrusive sounds, and in a tone of 
mourning and compasa^fc rather than reproach. 



2y 



690 BLEAK HOUSE. 

CHAPTER LV. 

FLIGHT. 

Inspector Bucket of the Detective has not yet struck his great 
blow, as just now chronicled, but is yet refreshing himself with sleep 
preparatory to his field-day, when, through the night and along the 
freezing wintry roads, a chaise and pair comes out of Lincolnshire, 
making its way towards London. 

Railroads shall soon traverse all this country, and with a rattle 
and a glare the engine and train shall shoot like a meteor over the 
wide night-landscape, turning the moon paler; but, as yet, such 
things are non-existent in these parts, though not wholly unexpected. 
Preparations are afoot, measurements are made, ground is staked 
out. Bridges are begun, and their not yet united piers desolately 
look at one another over roads and streams, like brick and mortar 
couples with an obstacle to their union ; fragments of embankments 
are thrown up, and left as precipices with torrents of rusty carts 
and barrows tumbling over them ; tripods of tall poles appear on 
hill-tops, where there are rumours of tunnels; everything looks 
chaotic, and abandoned in fell hopelessness. Along the freezing 
roads, and through the night, the post-chaise makes its way without 
a railroad on its mind. 

Mrs. Rouncewell, so many years housekeeper at Chesney Wold, 
sits within the chaise ; and by her side sits Mrs. Bagnet with her 
grey cloak and umbrella. The old girl would prefer the bar in 
front, as being exposed to the weather, and a primitive sort of perch 
more in accordance with her usual course of travelling ; but Mrs. 
Rouncewell is too thoughtful of her comfort to admit of her propos- 
ing it. The old lady cannot make enough of the old girl. She 
sits, in her stately manner, holding her hand, and, regardless of its 
roughness, puts it often to her lips. " You are a mother, my dear 
soul," says she many times, "and you found out my George's 
mother ! " 

"Why, George," returns Mrs. Bagnet, "was always free with 
me, ma'am, and when he said at our house to my Woolwich, that of 
all the things my Woolwich could have to think of when he grew 
to be a man, the comfortablest would be that he had never brought 
a sorrowful line into his mother's face, or turned a hair of her head 
grey, then I felt sure, from his way, that something fresh had 
brought his own mother into his mind. I had often known him to 
say to me, in past times, that he had belied bad to her." 

" Never, my dear ! " returns Mrs. !lSa.ncewell, bursting into 
tears. "My blessing on him, never ! He was always fond of me, 



BLEAK HOUSE. 691 

and loving to me, was my George ! But he had a bold spirit, and 
he ran a little wild, and went for a soldier. And I know he waited 
at first, in letting us know about himself, till he should rise to be an 
officer ; and when he didn't rise, I know he considered himself 
beneath us, and wouldn't be a disgrace to us. For he had a lion 
heart, had my George, always from a baby ! " 

The old lady's hands stray about her as of yore, while she recalls, 
all in a tremble, what a likely lad, what a fine lad, what a gay 
good-humoured clever lad he was ; how they all took to him, down 
at Chesney Wold ; how Sir Leicester took to him when he was a 
young gentleman ; how the dogs took to him ; how even the people, 
who had been angry with him, forgave him the moment he was 
gone, poor boy. And now to see him after all, and in a prison too ! 
And the broad stomacher heaves, and the quaint upright old-fash- 
ioned figure bends under its load of affectionate distress. 

Mrs. Bagnet, with the instinctive skill of a good warm heart, 
leaves the old housekeeper to her emotions for a little while — not 
without passing the back of her hand across her own motherly eyes 
— and presently chirps up in her cheery manner : 

" So I says to George when I goes to call him in to tea (he pre- 
tended to be smoking his pipe outside), ' What ails you this after- 
noon, George, for gracious sake 1 I have seen all sorts, and I have 
seen you pretty often in season and out of season, abroad and at 
home, and I never see you so melanchoUy penitent.' ' Why, Mrs. 
Bagnet,' says George, 'it's because I am melanchoUy and penitent 
both, this afternoon, that you see me so.' 'What have you done, 
old fellow?' I says. 'Why, Mrs. Bagnet,' says George, shaking 
his head, ' what I have done has been done this many a long year, 
and is best not tried to be undone now. If I ever get to Heaven, 
it won't be for being a good son to a widowed mother ; I say no 
more.' Now, ma'am, when George says to me that it's best not 
tried to be undone now, I have my thoughts as I have often had 
before, and I draw it out of George how he comes to have such 
things on him that afternoon. Then George tells me that he has 
seen by chance, at the lawyer's ofiice, a fine old lady that has brought 
his mother plain before him ; and he runs on about that old lady 
till he quite forgets himself, and paints her picter to me as she 
used to be, years upon years back. So I says to George when he 
has done, who is this old lady he has seen 1 And George tells me 
it's Mrs. Rouncewell, housekeeper for more than half a century to 
the Dedlock family down at Chesney Wold in Lincolnshire. George 
has frequently told me before that he's a Lincolnshire man, and 
I says to my old Ligiram that night, ' Lignum, that's his mother 
for five-and-for-ty pound ! ' " 



692 BLEAK HOUSE. 

All this Mrs. Bagnet now relates for the twentieth time at least 
within the last four hours. Trilling it out, like a kind of bird ; 
with a pretty high note, that it may be audible to the old lady 
above the hum of the wheels. 

" Bless you, and thank you," says Mrs. Rouncewell. " Bless you, 
and thank you, my worthy soul ! " 

"Dear heart !" cries Mrs. Bagnet, in the most natural manner. 
"No thanks to me, I am sure. Thanks to yourself, ma'am, for 
being so ready to pay 'em ! And mind once more, ma'am, what 
you had best do on finding George to be your own son, is, to make 
him — for your sake — have every sort of help to put himself in 
the right, and clear himself of a charge of which he is as inno- 
cent as you or me. It won't do to have truth and justice on his 
side ; he must have law and lawyers," exclaims the old girl, appar- 
ently persuaded that the latter form a separate establishment, and 
have dissolved partnership with truth and justice for ever and a 
day. 

" He shall have," says Mrs. Rouncewell, " all the help that can 
be got for him in the world, my dear. I will spend all I have, 
and thankfully, to procure it. Sir Leicester will do his best, the 
whole family will do their best. I — I know something, my dear ; 
and will make my own appeal, as his mother parted from him all 
these years, and finding him in a jail at last." 

The extreme disquietude of the old housekeeper's manner in say- 
ing this, her broken words, and her wringing of her hands, make a 
powerful impression on Mrs. Bagnet, and would astonish her but 
that she refers them all to her sorrow for her son's condition. And 
yet Mrs. Bagnet wonders, too, why Mrs. Rouncewell should murmur 
so distractedly, " My Lady, my Lady, my Lady ! " over and over 
again. 

The frosty night wears away, and the dawn breaks, and the post- 
chaise comes rolling on through the early mist, like the ghost of a 
chaise departed. It has plenty of spectral company, in ghosts of 
trees and hedges, slowly vanishing and giving place to the realities 
of day. London reached, the travellers alight ; the old housekeeper 
in great tribulation and confusion ; Mrs. Bagnet, quite fresh and 
collected ■ — as she would be, if her next point, with no new equi- 
page and outfit, were the Cape of Good Hope, the Island of Ascen- 
sion, Hong Kong, or any other military station. 

But when they set out for the prison where the trooper is con- 
fined, the old lady has managed to draw about her, with her laven- 
der-coloured dress, much of the staid calmness which is its usual 
accompaniment. A wonderfully grave, pribise, and handsome piece 
of old china she looks ; though her heart beats fast, and her stom- 



694 BLEAK HOUSE. 

acher is ruffled, more than even the remembrance of this wayward 
son has ruffled it these many years. 

Approaching the cell, they find the door opening and a warder in 
the act of coming out. The old girl promptly makes a sign of 
entreaty to him to say nothing ; assenting, with a nod, he suffers 
them to enter as he shuts the door. 

So George, who is writing at his table, supposing himself to be 
alone, does not raise his eyes, but remains absorbed. The old house- 
keeper looks at hirn, and those wandering hands of hers are quite 
enough for Mrs. Bagnet's confirmation ; even if she could see the 
mother and the son together, knowing what she knows, and doubt 
their relationship. 

Not a rustle of the housekeeper's dress, not a gesture, not a word, 
betrays her. She stands looking at him as he writes on, all uncon- 
scious, and only her fluttering hands give utterance to her emotions. 
But they are very eloquent ; very, very eloquent. Mrs. Bagnet 
understands them. They speak of gratitude, of joy, of grief, of 
hope ; of inextinguishable affection, cherished with no return since 
this stalwart man was a stripling ; of a better son loved less, and 
this son loved so fondly and so proudly ; and they speak in such 
touching language, that Mrs. Bagnet's eyes brim up with tears, 
and they run glistening down her sun-browned face. 

" Greorge Rouncewell ! my dear child, turn and look at me ! " 

The trooper starts up, clasps his mother round the neck, and falls 
down on his knees before her. Whether in a late repentance, whether 
in the first association that comes back upon him, he puts his hands 
together as a child does when it says its prayers, and raising them 
towards her breast, bows down his head, and cries. 

" My George, my dearest son ! Always my favourite, and my 
favourite still, where have you been these cruel years and years 1 
Grown such a man too, grown such a fine strong man. Grown so 
like what I knew he must be, if it pleased God he was alive ! " 

She can ask, and he can answer, nothing connected for a time. 
All that time the old girl, turned away, leans one arm against the 
whitened wall, leans her honest forehead upon it, wipes her eyes 
with her serviceable grey cloak, and quite enjoys herself like the 
best of old girls as she is. 

"Mother," says the trooper, when they are more composed; 
" forgive me first of all, for I know my need of it." 

Forgive him ! She does it with all her heart and soul. She 
always has done it. She tells him how she has had it written in 
her will, these many years, that he was her beloved son George. 
She has never believed any ill of him, never. If she had died 
without this happiness — and she is an old woman now, and can't 



BLEAK HOUSE. 696 

look to live very long — she would have blessed him with her last 
breath, if she had had her senses, as her beloved son George. 

" Mother, I have been an undutiful trouble to you, and I have 
my reward ; but of late years I have had a kind of a glimmering 
of a purpose in me, too. When I left home I didn't care much, 
mother — ^ I am afraid not a great deal — for leaving ; and went 
away and 'listed, harum-scarum, making believe to think that I 
cared for nobody, no not I, and that nobody cared for me." 

The trooper has dried his eyes, and put away his handkerchief; 
but there is an extraordinary contrast between his habitual manner 
of expressing himself and carrying himself, and the softened tone 
in which he speaks, interrupted occasionally by a half-stifled sob. 

" So I wrote a line home, mother, as you too well know, to say 
I had 'listed under another name, and I went abroad. Abroad, at 
one time I thought I would write home next year when I might 
be better off ; and when that year was out, I thought I would write 
home next year when I might be better off; and when that year 
was out again, perhaps I didn't think much about it. So on, from 
year to year, through a service of ten years, till I began to get 
older, and to ask myself why should I ever write 1 " 

"I don't find any fault, child — but not to ease my mind, 
George? Not a word to your loving mother, who was growing 
older, too ? " 

This almost overturns the trooper afresh ; but he sets himself 
up with a great, rough, sounding clearance of his throat. 

"Heaven forgive me, mother, but I thought there would be 
small consolation then in hearing anything about me. There were 
you, respected and esteemed. There was my brother, as I read in 
chance north-country papers now and then, rising to be prosperous 
and famous. Tliere was I, a dragoon, roving, unsettled, not self- 
made like him, but self-unmade — all my earlier advantages thrown 
away, all my little learning unlearnt, nothing picked up but what 
unfitted me for most things that I could think of. What business 
had / to make myself known 1 After letting all that time go by 
me, what good could come of it 1 The worst was past with you, 
mother. I knew by that time (being a man) how you had mourned 
for me, and wept for me, and prayed for me ; and the pain was 
over, or was softened down, and I was better in your mind as it 
was." 

The old lady sorrowfully shakes her head ; and taking one of his 
powerful hands, lays it lovingly upon her shoulder. 

" No, I don't say that it was so, mother, but that I made it out 
to be so. I said just now what good could come of it 1 Well, my 
dear mother, some good might have come of it to myself — and 



696 BLEAK HOUSE. 

there was the meanness of it. You would have sought me out ; 
you would have purchased my discharge ; you would have taken 
me down to Chesney Wold ; you would have brought me and my 
brother and my brother's family together; you would all have con- 
sidered anxiously how to do something for me, and set me up as a 
respectable civilian. But how could any of you feel sure of me, 
when I couldn't so much as feel sure of myself? How could you 
help regarding as an incumbrance and a discredit to you, an idle 
dragooning chap, who was an incumbrance and a discredit to him- 
self, excepting under discipline ? How could I look my brother's 
children in the face, and pretend to set them an example — I, the 
vagabond boy, who had run away from home, and been the grief 
and unhaj^piness of my mother's life ? ' No, George.' Such were 
my words, mother, when I passed this in review before me : ' You 
have made your bed. Now, lie upon it.' " 

Mrs. Rouncewell, drawing up her stately form, shakes her head 
at the old girl with a swelling pride upon her, as much as to say, 
" I told you so ! " The old girl relieves her feelings, and testifies 
her interest in the conversation, by giving the trooper a great poke 
between the shoulders with her umbrella ; this action she after- 
wards repeats, at intervals, in a species of affectionate lunacy : 
never failing, after the administration of each of these remon- 
strances, to resort to the whitened wall and the grey cloak again. 

" This was the way I brought myself to think, mother, that my 
best amends was to lie upon that bed I had made, and die upon it. 
And I should have done it (though I have been to see you more 
than once, down at Chesney Wold, when you little thought of me), 
but for my old comrade's wife here, who I find has been too many 
for me. But I thank her for it. I thank you for it, Mrs. Bagnet, 
with all my heart and might." 

To which Mrs. Bagnet responds with two pokes. 

And now the old lady impresses upon her son George, her own 
dear recovered boy, her joy and pride, the light of her eyes, the 
happy close of her life, and eveiy fond name she can think of, that 
he must be governed by the best advice obtainable by money and 
influence ; that he must yield up his case to the greatest lawyers 
that can be got ; that he must act, in this serious plight, as he 
shall be advised to act ; and must not be self-willed, however right, 
but must promise to think only of his poor old mother's anxiety 
and suflering until he is released, or he will break her heart. 

"Mother, 'tis little enough to consent to," returns the trooper, 
stopping her with a kiss ; " tell me what I shall do, and I'll make 
a late beginning, and do it. Mrs. Bagnet, you'll take care of my 
mother, I know 1 " 



BLEAK HOUSE. 697 

A very hard poke from the old girl's umbrella. 

"If you'll brhag her acquainted with Mr. Jarndyce and Miss 
Summerson, she will find them of her way of thinking, and they 
will give her the best advice and assistance." 

"And, George," says the old lady, "we must send with all 
haste for your brother. He is a sensible sound man as they tell 
me — out in the world beyond Chesney Wold, my dear, though I 
don't know much of it myself — and will be of great service." 

"Mother," returns the trooper, "is it too soon to ask a favour T' 

" Surely not, my dear." 

" Then grant me this one great favour. Don't let my brother 
know." 

" Not know what, my dear 1 " 

" Not know of me. In fact, mother, I can't bear it ; I can't 
make up my mind to it. He has proved himself so diff"erent from 
me, and has done so much to raise himself while I've been soldier- 
ing, that I haven't brass enough in my composition to see him 
in this place and under this charge. How could a man like him 
be expected to have any pleasure in such a discovery? It's im- 
possible. No, keep my secret from him, mother; do me a greater 
kindness than I deserve, and keep my secret from my brother, of 
all men." 

" But not always, dear George ? " 

" Why, mother, perhaps not for good and all — though I may 
come to ask that too — • but keep it now, I do entreat you. If it's 
ever broke to him that his Rip of a brother has turned up, I could 
wish," says the trooper, shaking his head very doubtfully, "to 
break it myself; and be governed, as to advancing or retreating, 
by the way in which he seems to take it." 

As he evidently has a rooted feeling on this point, and as the 
depth of it is recognised in Mrs. Bagnet's face, his mother yields 
her implicit assent to what he asks. For this he thanks her 
kindly. 

" In all other respects, my dear mother, I'll be as tractable and 
obedient as you can wish ; on this one alone, I stand out. So 
now I am ready even for the lawyers. I have been drawing up," 
he glances at his writing on the table, "an exact account of what 
I knew of the deceased, and how I came to be involved in this 
unfortunate affair. It's entered, plain and regular, like an orderly- 
book ; not a word in it but what's wanted for the facts. I did 
intend to read it, straight on end, whensoever I was called upon to 
say anytliing in my defence. I hope I may be let to do it still ; 
but I have no longer a will of my own in this case, and whatever 
is said or done, I give my promise not to have any." 



698 BLEAK HOUSE. 

Matters being brought to this so far satisfactory pass, and time 
being on the wane, Mrs. Bagnet proposes a departure. Again 
and again the old lady hangs upon her son's neck, and again and 
again the trooper holds her to his broad chest. 

"Where are you going to take my mother, Mrs. Bagnet?" 

" I am going to the town house, my dear, the family house. I 
have some business there, that must be looked to directly," Mrs. 
Rouncewell answers. 

" Will you see my mother safe there, in a coach, Mrs. Bagnet ? 
But of course I know you will. Why should I ask it ! " 

Why indeed, Mrs. Bagnet expresses with the umbrella. 

" Take her, my old friend, and take my gratitude along with 
you. Kisses to Quebec and Malta, love to my godson, a hearty 
shake of the hand to Lignum, and this for yourself, and I wish it 
was ten thousand pound in gold, my dear ! " So saying, the trooper 
puts his lips to the old girl's tanned forehead, and the door shuts 
upon him in his cell. 

No entreaties on the part of the good old housekeeper will 
induce Mrs. Bagnet to retain the coach for her own conveyance 
home. Jumping out cheerfully at the door of the Dedlock man- 
sion, and handing Mrs. Rouncewell up the steps, the old girl 
shakes hands and trudges off; arriving soon afterwards in the 
bosom of the Bagnet family, and falling to washing the greens, as 
if nothing had happened. 

My Lady is in that room in which she held her last conference 
with the murdered man, and is sitting where she sat that night, 
and is looking at the spot where he stood upon the hearth, study- 
ing her so leisurely, when a tap comes at the door. Who is it? 
Mrs. Rouncewell. What has brought Mrs. Rouncewell to town so 
unexpectedly ? 

" Trouble, my Lady. Sad trouble. my Lady, may I beg a 
word with you ? " 

What new occurrence is it that makes this tranquil old woman 
tremble so? Far happier than her Lady, as her Lady has often 
thought, why does she falter in this manner, and look at her with 
such strange mistrust ? 

" What is the matter ? Sit down and take your breath." 

" my Lady, my Lady. I have found my son — my youngest, 
who went away for a soldier so long ago. And he is in prison." 

" For debt 1 " 

" no, my Lady; I would have paid any debt, and joyful." 

" For what is he in prison, then ? " 

" Charged with a murder, my Lady, of which he is as innocent 
as — as I am. Accused of the murder of Mr. Tulkinghorn." 



BLEAK HOUSE. 699 

What does she mean by this look and this imploring gesture ? 
Why does she come so close 1 What is the letter that she holds ? 

" Lady Dedlock, my dear Lady, my good Lady, my kind Lady ! 
You must have a heart to feel for me, you must have a heart 
to forgive me. I was in this family before you were born. I am 
devoted to it. But think of my dear son wrongfully accused." 

" / do not accuse him." 

" No, my Lady, no. But others do, and he is in prison and in 
danger. Lady Dedlock, if you can say but a word to help to 
clear him, say it ! " 

What delusion can this be? What power does she suppose is 
in the person she petitions, to avert this unjust suspicion, if it be 
unjust? Her Lady's handsome eyes regard her with astonishment, 
almost with fear. 

" My Lady, I came away last night from Chesney W^old to find 
my son in my old age, and the step upon the Ghost's Walk was so 
constant and so solemn that I never heard the like in all these 
years. Night after night, as it has fallen dark, the sound has 
echoed through your rooms, but last night it was awfullest. And 
as it fell dark last night, my Lady, I got this letter." 

"What letter is it?" 

" Hush ! Hush ! " The housekeeper looks round, and answers 
in a frightened whisper : " My Lady, I have not breathed a word 
of it, I don't believe what's written in it, I know it can't be true, 
I am sure and certain that it is not true. But my son is in 
danger, and you must have a heart to pity me. If you know of 
anything that is not known to others, if you have any suspicion, 
if you have any clue at all, and any reason for keeping it in your 
own breast, O my dear Lady, think of me, and conquer that rea- 
son, and let it be known ! This is the most I consider possible. 
I know you are not a hard lady, but you go your own way always 
without help, and you are not familiar with your friends ; and all 
who admire you — and all do — as a beautiful and elegant lady, 
know you to be one far away from themselves, who can't be 
approached close. My Lady, you may have some proud or angry 
reasons for disdaining to utter something that you know ; if so, 
pray, pray, think of a faithful servant whose whole life has 
been passed in this family which she dearly loves, and relent, and 
help to clear my son ! My Lady, my good Lady," the old house- 
keeper pleads with genuine simplicity, "I am so humble in my 
place, and you are by nature so high and distant, that you may not 
think what I feel for my child ; but I feel so much, that I have 
come here to make so bold as to beg and pray you not to be scornful 
of us, if you can do us any right or justice at this fearful time ! " 



Too BLEAK HOUSE. 

Lady Dedlock raises her without one word, until she takes the 
letter from her hand. 

" Am I to read this ? " 

" When I am gone, my Lady, if you please ; and then remem- 
bering the most that I consider possible." 

"I know of nothing I can do. I know of nothing I reserve, 
that can affect your son. I have never accused him." 

" My Lady, you may pity him the more, under a false accusa- 
tion, after reading the letter." 

The old housekeeper leaves her with the letter in her hand. In 
truth she is not a hard lady naturally; and the time has been 
when the sight of the venerable figure suing to her with such 
strong earnestness would have moved her to great compassion. 
But, so long accustomed to suppress emotion, and keep down 
reality; so long schooled for her own purposes, in that destructive 
school which shuts up the natural feelings of the heart, like flies 
in amber, and spreads one uniform and dreary gloss over the good 
and bad, the feeling and the unfeeling, the sensible and the sense- 
less ; she has subdued even her wonder until now. 

She opens the letter. Spread out upon the paper is a printed 
account of the discovery of the body, as it lay face downward on 
the floor, shot through the heart , and underneath is written her 
own name, with the word Murderess attached. 

It falls out of her hand. How long it may have lain upon the 
ground, she knows not ; but it lies where it fell, when a servant 
stands before her announcing the young man of the name of 
Guppy. The words have probably been repeated several times, 
for they are ringing in her head before she begins to understand 
them. 

" Let him come in ! " 

He comes in. Holding the letter in her hand, which she has 
taken from the floor, she tries to collect her thoughts. In the 
eyes of Mr. Guppy she is the same Lady Dedlock, holding the 
same prepared, proud, chilling state. 

" Your Ladyship may not be at first disposed to excuse this visit 
from one who has never been very welcome to your Ladyship — 
which he don't complain of, for he is bound to confess that there 
never has been any particular reason on the face of things, why 
he should be ; but I hope when I mention my motives to your 
Ladyship, you will not find fault with me," says Mr. Guppy. 

"Do so." 

" Thank your Ladyship. I ought first to explain to your 
Ladyship," Mr. Guppy sits on the edge of a chair, and puts his 
hat on the carpet at his feet, " that Miss Summerson, whose image 



BLEAK HOUSE. 701 

as I formerly mentioned to your Ladyship was at one period of my 
life imprinted on my art nntil erased by circumstances over which 
I had no control, communicated to me, after I had the pleasure of 
waiting on your Ladyship last, that she particularly wished me 
to take no steps whatever in any matter at all relating to her. 
And Miss Summerson's wishes being to me a law (excejDt as con- 
nected with circumstances over which I have no control), I conse- 
quently never expected to have the distinguished honour of waiting 
on your Ladyship again." 

And yet he is here now, Lady Dedlock moodily reminds him. 

" And yet I am here now," Mr. Gappy admits. " My object 
being to communicate to your Ladyship, under the seal of confi- 
dence, why I am here." 

He cannot do so, she tells him, too plainly or too briefly. 

" Nor can I," Mr. Gupj^y returns, with a sense of injury upon 
him, " too particularly request your Ladyship to take particular 
notice that it's no personal aft'air of mine that brings me here. I 
have no interested views of my own to serve in coming here. If 
it was not for my promise to Miss Summerson, and my keeping of 
it sacred, — I, in point of fact, shouldn't have darkened these 
doors again, but should have seen 'em further first." 

Mr. Guppy considers this a favourable moment for sticking up 
his hair with both hands. 

" Your Ladyship will remember when I mention it, that the 
last time I was here, I run against a party "veiy eminent in our 
profession, and whose loss we all deplore. That party certainly 
did from that time apply himself to cutting in against me in a 
way that I will call sharp practice, and did make it, at every turn 
and point, extremely difiicult for me to be sure that I hadn't 
inadvertently led up to something contrairy to Miss Sunmierson's 
wishes. Self-praise is no recommendation; but I may say for 
myself that I am not so bad a man of business neither." 

Lady Dedlock looks at him in stern inquiry. Mr. Guppy imme- 
diately withdraws his eyes from her face, and looks anywhere else. 

"Indeed, it has been made so hard," he goes on, "to have any 
idea what that party was up to in combination with others, that 
until the loss which we all deplore, I was gravelled — an expression 
which your Ladyship, moving in the higher circles, will be so good 
as to consider tantamount to knocked over. Small likewise — a 
name by which I refer to another party, a friend of mine that 
your Ladyship is not acquainted with — got to be so close and 
double-faced that at times it wasn't easy to keep one's hands off" 
his ed. However, what with the exertion of my humble abilities, 
and what with the help of a mutual friend by the name of 



702 BLEAK HOUSE. 

Mr. Tony Weevle (who is of a high aristocratic turn, and has your 
Ladyship's portrait always hanging up in his room), I have now 
reasons for an apprehension, as to which I come to put your 
Ladyship upon your guard. First, will your Ladyship allow me 
to ask you whether you have had any strange visitors this morn- 
ing? I don't mean fashionable visitors, but such visitors, for 
instance, as Miss Barbary's old servant, or as a person without the 
use of his lower extremities, carried up-stairs similarly to a Guy ? " 

"No!" 

" Then I assure your Ladyship that such visitors have been 
here, and have been received here. Because I saw them at the 
door, and waited at the corner of the square till they came out, 
and took half-an-hour's turn afterwards to avoid them." 

" What have I to do with that, or what have you ? I do not 
understand you. What do you mean 1 " 

" Your Ladyship, I come to put yoii on your guard. There may 
be no occasion for it. Very well. Then I have only done my best 
to keep my promise to Miss Summerson. I strongly suspect (from 
what Small has dropped, and from what we have corkscrewed out 
of him) that those letters I was to have brought to your Ladyship 
were not destroyed when I supposed they were. That if there was 
anything to be blown upon, it is blown upon. That the visitors I 
have alluded to have been here this morning to make money of it. 
And that the money is made, or making." 

Mr. Gruppy picks up his hat and rises. 

" Your Ladyship, you know best, whether there's anything in 
what I say, or whether there's nothing. Something or nothing, I 
have acted up to Miss Summerson's wishes in letting things alone, 
and in undoing what I had begun to do, as far as possible ; that's 
sufficient for me. In case I should be taking a liberty in putting 
your Ladyship on your guard when there's no necessity for it, you 
will endeavour, I should hope, to outlive my presumption, and I 
shall endeavour to outlive your disapprobation. I now take my 
farewell of your Ladyship, and assure you that there's no danger of 
your ever being waited on by me again." 

She scarcely acknowledges these parting words by any look ; but 
when he has been gone a little while, she rings her bell. 

" Where is Sir Leicester ? " 

Mercury reports that he is at present shut up in the library, 
alone. 

" Has Sir Leicester had any visitors this morning 1 " 

Several, on business. Mercury proceeds to a description of 
them, which has been anticipated by Mr. Guppy. Enough; he 
may go. 



BLEAK HOUSE. 703 

So ! All is broken down. Her name is in these many mouths, 
her husband knows his wrongs, her shame will be published — 
may be spreading while she thinks about it — and in addition to 
the thunderbolt so long foreseen by her, so unforeseen by him, she 
is denounced by an invisible accuser as the murderess of her 
enemy. 

Her enemy he was, and she has often, often, often, wished him 
dead. Her enemy he is, even in his grave. This dreadful accusa- 
tion comes upon her, like a new torment at his lifeless hand. And 
when she recalls how she was secretly at his door that night, and 
how she may be represented to have sent her favourite girl away, 
so soon before, merely to release herself from observation, she 
shudders as if the hangman's hands were at her neck. 

She has thrown herself upon the floor, and lies with her hair all 
wildly scattered, and her face buried in the cushions of a couch. 
She rises up, hurries to and fro, flings herself down again, and 
rocks and moans. The horror that is upon her is unutterable. 
If she really were the murderess, it could hardly be, for the 
moment, more intense. 

For, as her murderous perspective, before the doing of the deed, 
however subtle the precautions for its commission, would have been 
closed up by a gigantic dilation of the hateful figure, preventing 
her from seeing any consequences beyond it ; and as those conse- 
quences would have rushed in, in an unimagined flood, the moment 
the figure was laid low — which always happens when a murder is 
done ; so, now she sees that when he used to be on the watch 
before her, and she used to think, " if some mortal stroke would 
but fall on this old man and take him from my way ! " it was but 
wishing that all he held against her in his hand might be flung to 
; the winds, and chance-sown in many places. So, too, with the 
wicked relief she has felt in his death. What was his death but 
I the key-stone of a gloomy arch removed, and now the arch begins 
I to fall in a thousand fragments, each crushing and mangling piece- 
I meal ! 

Thus, a terrible impression steals upon and overshadows her, 
3 that from this pursuer, living or dead — obdurate and imperturb- 
able before her in his well- remembered shape, or not more obdurate 
and imperturbable in his coffin-bed, — there is no escape but in 
death. Hunted, she flies. The complication of her shame, her 
dread, remorse, and misery, overwhelms her at its height ; and 
even her strength of self-reliance is overturned and whirled away, 
i like a leaf before a mighty wind. 

She hurriedly addresses these lines to her husband, seals, and 
leaves them on her table. 



704 BLEAK HOUSE. 

" If I am sought for, or accused of, his murder, believe that I 
am wholly innocent. Believe no other good of me ; for I am inno- 
cent of nothing else that you have heard, or will hear, laid to my 
charge. He prepared me, on that fatal night, for his disclosure of 
my guilt to you. After he had left me, I went out, on pretence of 
walking in the garden where I sometimes walk, but really to follow 
him, and make one last jjetition that he would not protract the 
dreadful suspense on which I had been racked by him, you do not 
know how long, but would mercifully strike next morning. 

"I found his house dark and silent. I rang twice at his door, 
but there was no reply, and I came home. 

" I have no home left. I will encumber you no more. May 
you, in your just resentment, be able to forget the unworthy woman 
on whom you have wasted a most generous devotion — who avoids 
you, only with a deeper shame than that with which she hurries 
from herself — and who writes this last adieu! " 

She veils and dresses quickly, leaves all her jewels and her 
money, listens, goes down-stairs at a moment when the hall '.s 
empty, opens and shuts the great door ; flutters away, in the shrill 
frosty wind. 



CHAPTER LVI. 

PURSUIT. 

Impassive, as behoves its high breeding, the Dedlock town 
house stares at the other houses in the street of dismal grandeur, 
and gives no outward sign of anything going wrong within. Car- 
riages rattle, doors are battered at, the world exchanges calls ; 
ancient charmers with skeleton throats, and peachy cheeks that 
have a rather ghastly bloom upon them seen by daylight, when 
indeed these fascinating creatures look like Death and the Lady 
fused together, dazzle the eyes of men. Forth from the frigid 
Mews come easily-swinging carriages guided by short-legged coach- 
men in flaxen wigs, deep sunk into downy hammercloths ; and up 
behind mount luscious Mercuries, bearing sticks of state, and wear- 
ing cocked hats broadwise : a spectacle for the Angels. 

The Dedlock town house changes not externally, and hours pass 
before its exalted dulness is disturbed within. But Volumnia the 
fair, being subject to the prevalent complaint of boredom, and 
finding that disorder attacking her spirits with some virulence, 
ventures at length to repair to the library for change of scene. 



BLEAK HOUSE. 705 

Her gentle tapping at the door producing no response, she opens it 
and peeps in ; seeing no one there, takes possession. 

The s^mghtly Dedlock is reputed, in that grass-grown city of 
the ancients, Batli, to be stimulated by an lu-gent curiosity, which 
imijels her on all convenient and inconvenient occasions to sidle 
about with a golden glass at her eye, peering into objects of every 
description. Certain it is that she avails herself of the present 
opportunity of hovering over her kinsman's letters and papers, like 
a bij-d ; taking a short peck at this document, and a blink with 
her head on one side at that document, and hopping about from 
table to table with her glass at her eye in an inquisitive and rest- 
less manner. In the course of these researches she stumbles over 
something ; and turning her glass in that direction, sees her kins- 
man lying on the ground like a felled tree. 

Volumnia's pet little scream acquires a considerable augmenta- 
tion of reality from this surprise, and the house is quickly in com- 
motion. Servants tear up and down stairs, bells are violently 
rung, doctors are sent for, and Lady Dedlock is sought in all direc- 
tions but not found. Nobody has seen or heard her since she last 
rang her bell. Her letter to Sir Leicester is discovered on her table ; 
— but it is doubtful yet whether he has not received another ]nis- 
sive from another world, requiring to be personally answered ; and 
all the living languages, and all the dead, are as one to him. 

They lay him down upon his bed, and chafe, and rub, and fan, 
and put ice to his head, and try every means of restoration. How- 
beit, the day has ebbed away, and it is night in his room, before 
his stertorous breathing lulls, or his fixed eyes show any conscious- 
ness of the candle that is occasionally passed before them. But 
when this change begins, it goes on ; and by-and-bye he nods, or 
moves his eyes, or even his hand, in token that he hears and 
comprehends. 

He fell down, this morning, a handsome stately gentleman; 
somewhat infirm, but of a fine presence, and with a well-filled 
face. He lies upon his bed, an aged man with sunken cheeks, the 
decrepit shadow of himself. His voice was rich and mellow ; and 
he had so long been thoroughly persuaded of the weight and im- 
port to mankind of any word he said, that his words really had 
come to sound as if there were something in them. But now he 
can only whisper ; and what he whispers sounds like what it is — 
mere jumble and jargon. 

His fiivourite and faithful housekeeper stands at his bedside. 
It is the first fact he notices, and he clearly derives pleasure from 
it. After vainly trying to make himself understood in speech, he 
makes signs for a pencil. So inexpressively, that they cannot at 

2z 



706 BLEAK HOUSE. 

first understand him ; it is his old housekeeper who makes out 
what he wants, and brings him a slate. 

After pausing for sor ' time, he slowly scrawls upon it, in a 
hand that is not his, " Caesney Wold 1 " 

No, she tells him ; he is in London. He was taken ill in the 
library, this morning. Right thankful she is that she happened 
to come to London, and is able to attend upon him. 

"It is not an illness of any serious consequence, Sir Leicester. 
You will be much better to-morrow. Sir Leicester. All the gen- 
tlemen say so." This, with the tears coursing down her fair old 
face. 

After making a survey of the room, and looking with particular 
attention all round the bed where the doctors stand, he writes 
"My Lady." 

"My Lady went out. Sir Leicester, before you were taken ill, 
and don't know of your illness yet." 

He points again, in great agitation, at the two words. They all 
try to quiet him, but he points again with increased agitation. 
On their looking at one another, not knowing what to say, he 
takes the slate once more, and writes, " My Lady. For God's sake, 
where ? " And makes an imploring moan. 

It is thought better that his old housekeeper should give him 
Lady Dedlock's letter, the contents of which no one knows or can 
surmise. She opens it for him, and puts it out for his perusal. 
Having read it twice by a great eftbrt, he turns it down so that 
it shall not be seen, and lies moaning. He passes into a kind of 
relapse, or into a swoon ; and it is an hour before he opens his 
eyes, reclining on his faithful and attached old servant's arm. 
The doctors know that he is best with her ; and, when not actively 
engaged about him, stand aloof 

The slate comes into requisition again ; but the word he wants 
to write, he cannot remember. His anxiety, his eagerness, and 
affliction, at this pass, are pitiable to behold. It seems as if he 
must go mad, in the necessity he feels for haste, and the inability 
under which he labours of expressing to do what, or to fetch whom. 
He has written the letter B, and there stopped. Of a sudden, in 
the height of his misery, he puts Mr. before it. The old house- 
keeper suggests Bucket. Thank Heaven ! That's his meaning. 

Mr. Bucket is found to be down-stairs, by appointment. Shall 
he come up ? 

There is no possibility of misconstruing Sir Leicester's burning 
wish to see him, or the desire he signifies to have the room cleared 
of every one but the housekeeper. It is speedily done ; and Mr. 
Bucket appears. Of all men upon earth, Sir Leicester seems 



BLEAK HOUSE. 707 

fallen from his high estate to place his sole trust and reliance upon 
this man. 

" Sir Leicester Dedlock, Baronet, I'm -lOrry to see you like this. 
I hope you'll cheer up. I'm sure you will, on account of the family 
credit." 

Sir Leicester puts her letter in his hand, and looks intently in 
his face while he reads it. A new intelligence comes into Mr. 
Bucket's eye, as he reads on ; with one hook of his finger, while 
that eye is still glancing over the words, he indicates, " Sir Leicester 
Dedlock, Baronet, I understand you." 

Sir Leicester writes upon the slate. "Full forgiveness. 
Find " Mr. Bucket stops his hand. 

" Sir Leicester Dedlock, Baronet, I'll find her. But my search 
after her must be begun out of hand. Not a minute must be 
lost." 

With the quickness of thought, he follows Sir Leicester Dedlock's 
look towards a little box upon a table. 

" Bring it here, Sir Leicester Dedlock, Baronet 1 Certainly. 
Open it with one of these here keys? Certainly. The littlest 
key ? To be sure. Take the notes out 1 So I will. Count 'em ? 
That's soon done. Twenty and thirty's fifty, and twenty's seventy, 
and fifty's one twenty, and forty's one sixty. Take 'em for ex- 
penses ? That I'll do, and render an account of course. Don't 
spare money? No, I won't." 

The velocity and certainty of Mr. Bucket's interpretation on all 
these heads is little short of miraculous. Mrs. Rouncewell, who 
holds the light, is giddy with the swiftness of his eyes and hands, 
as he starts up, furnished for his journey. 

" You're George's mother, old lady ; that's about what you are, I 
believe 1 " says Mr. Bucket, aside, with his hat already on, and 
buttoning his coat. 

" Yes, sir, I am his distressed mother." 

" So I thought, according to what he mentioned to me just now. 
Well, then, I'll tell you something. You needn't be distressed no 
more. Your son's all right. Now don't you begin a crying ; be- 
cause what you've got to do is to take care of Sir Leicester Dedlock, 
Baronet, and you won't do that by crying. As to your son, he's 
all right, I tell you ; and he sends his loving duty, and hoping 
you're the same. He's discharged honourable ; that's about what he 
is; with no more imputation on his character than there is on 
yours, and yours is a tidy one, /'U bet a pound. You may trust 
me, for I took your son. He conducted himself in a game way, 
too, on that occasion ; and he's a fine-made man, and you're a fine- 
made old lady, and you're a mother and son, the pair of you, as 



708 BLEAK HOUSE. 

might be showed for models in a caravan. Sir Leicester Dedlock, 
Baronet, what you've trusted to me, I'll go through with. Don't 
you be afraid of my turning out of my way, right or left ; or tak- 
ing a sleep, or a wash, or a shave, 'till I have found what I go in 
search of Say everything as is kind and forgiving on your part ? 
Sir Leicester Dedlock, Baronet, I will. And I wish you better, 
and these family affairs smoothed over — as. Lord ! many other ' 
family affairs equally has been, and equally will be, to the end of 
time." 

With this peroration, Mr. Bucket, buttoned up, goes quietly out, 
looking steadily before him as if he were already piercing the night, 
in quest of the fugitive. 

His first step is to take himself to Lady Dedlock's rooms, and 
look all over them for any trifling indication that may help him. 
The rooms are in darkness now ; and to see Mr. Bucket with a 
wax-light in his hand, holding it above his head, and taking a 
sharp mental inventory of the many delicate objects so curiously 
at variance with himself, would be to see a sight — which nobody 
does see, as he is particular to lock himself in. 

"A spicy boudoir this," says Mr. Bucket, who feels in a manner! 
furbished up in his French by the blow of the morning. " Must 
have cost a sight of money. Rum articles to cut away from, 
these ; she must have been hard put to it ! " 

Opening and shutting table-drawers, and looking into caskets 
and jewel-cases, he sees the reflection of himself in various mirrors, 
and moralises thereon. 

" One might suppose I was a moving in the fashionable circles, 
and getting myself up for Almack's," says Mr. Bucket. " I begin 
to think I must be a swell in the Guards, withoiit knowing it." 

Ever looking about, he has opened a dainty little chest in an 
inner drawer. His great hand, turning over some gloves which it 
can scarcely feel, they are so light and soft within it, comes upon a 
white handkerchief 

" Hum ! Let's have a look at pou," says Mr. Bucket, putting 
down the light. " What should t/ou be kept by yourself for ? 
What's your motive ? Are you her Ladyship's property, or some- 
body else's ? You've got a mark upon you, somewheres or another, 
I suppose 1 " 

He finds it as he speaks, " Esther Summerson." 

" Oh ! " says Mr. Bucket, pausing, with his finger at his ear. 
" Come, I'll take j/ou." 

He completes his observations as quietly and carefully as he has 
carried them on, leaves everything else precisely as he found it, 
glides away after some five minutes in all, and passes into the 



BLEAK HOUSE. 709 

street. With a glance upward at the dimly lighted windows of 
Sir Leicester's room, he sets off, full swing, to tlie nearest coach- 
stand, picks out the horse for his money, and directs to be driven 
to the Shooting Gallery. Mr. Bucket does not claim to be a 
scientific judge of horses ; but he lays out a little money on the 
principal events in that line, and generally sums up his knowledge 
of the subject in the remark, that when he sees a horse as can go, 
he knows him. 

His knowledge is not at fault in the present instance. Clatter- 
ing over the stones at a dangerous pace, yet thoughtfully bringing 
his keeii eyes to bear on every slinking creature whom he passes in 
the midnight streets, and even on the lights in upper windows 
where people are going or gone to bed, and on all the turnings that 
he rattles by, and alike on the heavy sky, and on the earth where 
the snow lies thin — for something may present itself to assist him, 
anywhere — he dashes to his destination at such a speed, that when 
he stops, the horse half smothers him in a cloud of steam. 

" Unbear him half a moment to freshen him up, and I'll be back." 

He runs up the long wooden entry, and finds the trooper smoking 
his pipe. 

" I thought I should, George, after what you have gone through, 
my lad. I haven't a word to spare. Now, honour ! All to save a 
woman. Miss Summerson that was here when Gridley died — that 
was the name, I know — all right ! — where does she live 1 " 

The trooper has just come from there, and gives him the address 
near Oxford Street. 

" You won't repent it, George. Good night ! " 

He is off again, with an impression of having seen Phil sitting by 
the frosty fire, staring at him open-mouthed ; and gallops away 
again, and gets out in a cloud of steam again. 

Mr. Jarndyce, the only person up in the house, is just going to 
bed ; rises from his book, on hearing the rapid ringing at the bell ; 
and comes down to the door in his dressing-gown. 

" Don't be alarmed, sir." In a moment, his visitor is confidential 
with him in the hall, has shut the door, and stands with his hand 
upon the lock. " I've had the pleasure of seeing you before. In- 
spector Bucket. Look at that handkerchief, sir. Miss Esther 
Summerson's. Found it myself, put away in a drawer of Lady Ded- 
lock's, quarter of an hour ago. Not a moment to lose. Matter of 
life or death. You know Lady Dedlock ? " 

"Yes." 
' " There has been a discovery there, to-day. Family affairs have 
come out. Sir Leicester Dedlock, Baronet, has had a fit — apoplexy 
' or paralysis — and couldn't be brought to, and precious time has 



710 BLEAK HOUSE. 

been lost. Lady Dedlock disappeared this afternoon, and left a 
letter for him that looks bad. Run your eye over it. Here it is ! " 
Mr. Jarndyce, having read it, asks him what he thinks ? 
" I don't know. It looks like suicide. Anyways there's more 
and more danger, every minute, of its drawing to that. I'd give a 
hundred pound an hour to have got the start of the present time. 
Now, Mr. Jarndyce, I am employed by Sir Leicester Dedlock, 
Baronet, to follow her and find her — to save her, and take her his 
forgiveness. I have money and full power, but I want something 
else. I want Miss Summersou." 

Mr. Jarndyce, in a troubled voice, repeats "Miss Summerson"? 
"Now, Mr. Jarndyce;" Mr. Bucket has read his face with the 
greatest attention all along ; "I speak to you as a gentleman of a 
humane heart, and under such pressing circumstances as don't often 
happen. If ever delay was dangerous, it's dangerous now ; and if 
ever you couldn't afterwards forgive yourself for causing it, this is 
the time. Eight or ten hours, worth, as I tell you, a hundred 
pound apiece at least, have been lost since Lady Dedlock dis- 
appeared. I am charged to find her. I am Inspector Bucket. 
Besides all the rest that's heavy on her, she has upon her, as she 
believes, suspicion of murder. If I follow her alone, she, being in 
ignorance of what Sir Leicester Dedlock, Baronet, has communicated 
to me, may be driven to desperation. But if I follow her in com- 
pany with a young lady, answering to the description of a young 
lady that she has a tenderness for — I ask no question, and I say 
no more than that — she will give me credit for being friendly. 
Let me come up with her, and be able to have the hold upon her of 
putting that young lady for'ard, and I'll save her and prevail with 
her if she is alive. Let me come up with her alone — a harder mat- 
ter — and I'll do my best ; but I don't answer for what the best 
may be. Time flies ; it's getting on for one o'clock. When one 
strikes, there's another hour gone ; and it's worth a thousand pound, 
now, instead of a hundred." 

This is all true, and the pressing nature of the case cannot be 
questioned. Mr. Jarndyce begs him to remain tliere, while he speaks 
to Miss Summerson. Mr. Bucket says he will ; but, acting on his 
usual principle, does no such thing — following up-stairs instead, 
and keeping his man in sight. So he remains, dodging and lurking 
about in the gloom of the staircase, while they confer. In a very 
little time, Mr. Jarndyce comes down, and tells him that Miss 
Summerson will join him directly, and place herself under his pro- 
tection, to accompany him where he pleases. Mr. Bucket, satis- 
fied, expresses high approval ; and awaits her coming, at the door. 
There, he mounts a high tower in his mind, and looks out, far 



712 BLEAK HOUSE. 

and wide. Many solitary figures he perceives, creeping through the 
streets ; many sohtary figures out on heaths, and roads, and lying 
under haystacks. But the figure that he seeks is not among them. 
Other solitaries he perceives, in nooks of bridges, looking over ; and ' 
in shadowed places down by the river's level ; and a dark, dark, 
shapeless object drifting with the tide, more solitary than all, clings 
witli a drowning hold on his attention. 

• Where is she ? Living or dead, where is she ? If, as he folds 
the handkerchief and carefully puts it up, it were able, with an 
enchanted power, to bring before him the place where she found it, 
and the night landscape near the cottage where it covered the little 
child, would he descry her there 1 On the waste, where the brick- 
kilns are burning with a pale blue flare ; where the straw-roofs of 
the wretched huts in which the bricks are made, are being scattered 
by the wind ; where the clay and water are hard frozen, and the 
mill in which the gaunt blind horse goes round all day, looks like an 
instrument of human torture ; — traversing this deserted blighted 
spot, there is a lonely figure with the sad world to itself, pelted by 
the snow and driven by the wind, and cast out, it would seem, from 
all companionship. It is the figure of a woman, too ; but it is 
miserably dressed, and no such clothes ever came through the hall, < 
and out at the great door, of the Dedlock mansion. : 



CHAPTER LVII. 

Esther's narrative. 

I HAD gone to bed and fallen asleep, when my Guardian knocked i 
at the door of my room and begged me to get up directly. On| 
my hurrying to speak to him and learn what had happened, he! 
told me, after a word or two of preparation, that there had been . 
a discovery at Sir Leicester Dedlock's. That my mother had fled ; ! 
that a person was now at our door who was empowered to convey ^ 
to her the fullest assurances of affectionate protection and forgive- ' 
ness, if he could possibly find her ; and that I was sought for to 
accompany him, in the hope that my entreaties might prevail upon 
her, if his failed. Something to this general purpose, I made out ;i 
but I was thrown into such a tumult of alarm, and hurry and dis- 
tress, that in spite of every eff'ort I could make to subdue my 
agitation, I did not seem, to myself, fully to recover my right mind 
until hours had passed. 

But, I dressed and wrapped up expeditiously without waking 
Charley, or any one ; and went down to Mr. Bucket, who was the 



BLEAK HOUSE. 713 

person eutrusted with the secret. In takmg me to him my Guar- 
dian told me this, and also exi^lained how it was that he had come 
to think of me. Mr. Bucket, in a low voice, by the light of my 
Guardian's candle, read to me, in the hall, a letter that my mother 
had left upon her table; and, I suppose within trt;en minutes of 
my having been aroused, I was sitting beside him, rolling swiftly 
through the streets. 

His manner was very keen, and yet considerate when he ex- 
plained to me that a great deal might depend on my being able 
to answer, without confusion, a few questions that he wished to 
ask me. These were, chiefly, whether I had had much communi- 
cation with my mother (to whom he only referred as Lady Ded- 
lock) ; when and where I had spoken with her last ; and how she 
had become possessed of my handkerchief. When I had satisfied 
him on these points, he asked me particularly to consider — taking 
time to think — whether, within my knowledge, there was any one, 
no matter where, in whom she might be at all likely to confide, 
under circumstances of the last necessity. I could think of no 
one but my Guardian. But, by-and-bye, I mentioned Mr. Boy- 
thorn. He came into my mind, as connected with his old chival- 
rous manner of mentioning my mother's name ; and with what my 
Guardian had informed me of his engagement to her sister, and 
his unconscious connection with her unhappy story. 

My companion had stopped the driver while we held this con- 
versation, that we might the better hear each other. He now told 
him to go on again ; and said to me, after considering within him- 
self for a few moments, that he had made up his mind how to 
proceed. He was quite willing to tell me what his plan was ; but 
I did not feel clear enough to understand it. 

We had not driven very far from our lodgings, when we stopped 
in a bye-street, at a public-looking place lighted up with gas. Mr. 
Bucket took me in and sat me in an arm-chair, by a bright fire. 
It was now past one, as I saw by the clock against the wall. Two 
police otficers, looking in their perfectly neat uniform not at all 
like people who were up all night, were quietly writing at a desk ; 
and the place seemed very quiet altogether, except for some beating 
and calling out at distant doors underground, to which nobody 
paid any attention. 

A third man in uniform, whom Mr. Bucket called and to whom 
he whispered his instructions, went out ; and then the two others 
advised together, while one wrote from Mr. Bucket's subdued dic- 
tation. It was a description of my mother that they were busy 
with ; for Mr. Bucket brought it to me when it was done, and read 
it in a whisper. It was very accurate indeed. 



714 BLEAK HOUSE. 

The second officer, who had attended to it closely, then copied 
it out, and called in another man in uniform (there were several in 
an outer room) who took it up and went away with it. All this 
was done with the greatest disjiatch, and without the waste of a 
moment ; yet nobody was at all hurried. As soon as the paper 
was sent out upon its travels, the two officers resumed their former 
quiet work of writing with neatness and care. Mr. Bucket thought- 
fully came and warmed the soles of his boots, ffi'st one and then 
the other, at the fire. 

"Are you well wrapped up, Miss Summerson?" he asked me, 
as his eyes met mine. " It's a desperate sharp night for a young 
lady to be out in." 

I told him I cared for no weather, and was warmly clothed. 

" It may be a long .job," he observed ; " but so that it ends well, 
never mind, miss." 

" I pray to Heaven it may end weU ! " said I. 

He nodded comfortingly. " You see, whatever you do, don't 
you go and fret yovu'self. You keep yourself cool, and equal for 
anything that may happen ; and it'll be the better for you, the 
better for me, the better for Lady Dedlock, and the better for Sir 
Leicester Dedlock, Baronet." 

He was really very kind and gentle ; and as he stood before the 
fire warming his boots, and rubbing his face with his forefinger, I 
felt a confidence in his sagacity which reassured me. It was not 
yet a quarter to two, when I heard horses' feet and wheels outside. 
" Now, Miss Summerson," said he, " we are off, if you please ! " 

He gave me his arm, and the two officers courteously bowed me 
out, and we found at the door a phaeton or barouche, with a pos- 
tilion and post horses. Mr. Bucket handed me in, and took his 
own seat on the box. The man in uniform whom he had sent to 
fetch this equipage, then handed him up a dark lantern at his 
request ; and when he had given a few directions to the driver, we 
rattled away. 

I was far from sure that I was not in a dream. We rattled 
with great rapidity through such a labyrinth of streets, that I 
soon lost all idea where we were ; except that we had crossed 
and recrossed the river, and still seemed to be traversing a low- 
lying, water-side, dense neighbourhood of narrow thoroughfares, 
chequered by docks and basins, high piles of warehouses, swing- 
bridges, and masts of ships. At length we stopped at the corner 
of a little slimy turning, which the wind from the river, rushing 
up it, did not purify ; and I saw my companion, by the light of 
his lantern, in conference with several men, who looked like a 
mixture of police and sailors. Against the mouldering wall by 



716 BLEAK HOUSE. 

wliitli they stood, there was a bill, on which I could discern the 
words, " Found Drowned ; " and this, and an inscription about 
Drags, possessed me with the awful suspicion shadowed forth in 
our visit to that place. 

I had no need to remind myself that I was not there, by the 
indulgence of any feeling of mine, to increase the difficulties of the 
search, or to lessen its hopes, or enhance its delays. I remained 
quiet ; but what I suffered in that dreadful spot, I never can forget. 
And still it was like the horror of a dream. A man yet dark and 
muddy, in long swollen sodden boots and a hat like them, was called 
out of a boat, and whispered with Mr. Bucket, who went away with 
him down some slippery steps — as if to look at something secret 
that he had to show. They came back, wiping their hands upon 
their coats, after turning over something wet ; but thank God it 
was not what I feared ! 

After some further conference, Mr. Bucket (whom everybody 
seemed to know and defer to) went in with the others at a door, 
and left me in the carriage ; while the driver walked up and down 
by his horses, to warm himself The tide was coming in, as I 
judged from the sound it made ; and I could hear it break at the 
end of the alley, with a little rush towards me. It never did so 
— and I thought it did so, hundreds of times, in what can have 
been at the most a quarter of an hour, and probably was less — 
but the thought shuddered through me that it would cast my 
mother at the horses' feet. 

Mr. Bucket came out again, exhorting the others to be vigilant, 
darkened his lantern, and once more took his seat. "Don't you 
be alarmed, Miss Summerson, on account of our coming down 
here," he said, turning to me. " I only want to have everything 
in train, and to know that it is in train by looking after it myself. 
Get on, my lad ! " 

We appeared to retrace the way we had come. Not that I had 
taken note of any particular objects in my perturbed state of mind, 
but judging from the general character of the streets. We called 
at another office or station for a minute, and crossed the river 
again. During the whole of this time, and during the whole 
search, my companion, wrapped up on the box, never relaxed in 
his vigilance a single moment ; but, when we crossed the bridge 
he seemed, if possible, to be more on the alert than before. He 
stood up to look over the parapet ; he alighted, and went back 
after a shadowy female figure that flitted past us ; and he gazed 
into the profound black pit oi water, with a face that made my 
heart die within me. The river had a fearful look, so overcast and 
secret, creeping away so fast between the low flat lines of shore : 



BLEAK HOUSE. 717 

so heavy with indistinct and awful shapes, Iwth of substance and 
shadow : so deathlike and mysterious. I have seen it many times 
since then, by sunlight and by moonlight, but never free from the 
impressions of that journey. In my memory, the 'lights upon the 
bridge are always burning dim ; the cutting wind is eddying round 
the homeless woman whom we pass; the monotonous wheels are 
whirling on ; and the light of the carriage lamps reflected back, 
looks palely in upon me — a face, rising out of the dreaded water. 

Clattering and clattering through the empty streets, we came at 
length from the pavement on to dark smooth roads, and began to 
leave the houses behind us. After a while, I recognised the famil- 
iar way to Saint Albans. At Barnet, fresh horses were ready for us, 
and we changed and went on. It was very cold indeed ; and the 
open country was white with snow, though none was falling then. 

"An old acquaintance of yours, this road, Miss Summerson," 
said Mr. Bucket, cheerfully. 

" Yes," I returned. " Have you gathered any intelUgence ? " 

"None that can be quite depended on as yet," he answered; 
"but it's early times as yet." 

He had gone into every late or early public-house where there 
was a light (they were not a few at that time, the road being then 
much frequented by drovers), and had got down to talk to the 
turnpike-keepers. I had heard him ordering drink, and chinking 
money, and making himself agreeable and merry everywhere ; but 
whenever he took his seat upon the box again, his face resumed 
its watchful steady look, and he always said to the driver in the 
same business tone, " Get on, my lad ! " 

With all these stoppages, it was between five and six o'clock 
and we were yet a few miles short of Saint Albans, when he came 
out of one of these houses and handed me in a cup of tea. 

" Drink it. Miss Summerson, it'll do you good. You're begin- 
ning to get more yourself now, ain't you 1 " 

I thanked him, and said I hoped so. 

"You was what you may call stunned at first," he returned; 
" and Lord ! no wonder. Don't speak loud, my dear. It's all 
right. She's on ahead." 

I don't know what joyful exclamation I made, or was going to 
make, but he put up his finger, and I stopped myself 

" Passed through here on foot, this evening, about eight or nine. 
I heard of her first at the archway toll, over at Highgate, but 
couldn't make quite sure. Traced her all along, on and off. 
Picked her up at one place, and dropped her at another; but 
she's before us now, safe. Take hold of this cup and saucer, 
Ostler. Now, if you wasn't brought up to the butter trade, look 



718 BLEAK HOUSE. 

out aud see if you can catch half-a-crown in your t'other hand. 
One, two, three, and there you are ! Now, my lad, try a gallop ! " 

We were soop in Saint Albans, and alighted a little before day, 
when I was just beginning to arrange and comprehend the occur- 
rences of the night, and really to believe that they were not a 
dream. Leaving the carriage at the posting-house, and ordering 
fresh horses to be ready, my companion gave me his arm, and we 
went towards home. 

" As this is your regular abode. Miss Summerson, you see," he 
observed, " I should like to know whether you've been asked for 
by any stranger answering the description, or whether Mr. Jarn- 
dyce has. I don't much expect it, but it might be." 

As we ascended the hill, he looked about him with a sharp eye 
— the day was now breaking — and reminded me that I had come 
down it one night, as I had reason for remembering, with my little 
servant and poor Jo : whom he called Toughey. 

I wondered how he knew that. 

"When you passed a man upon the road, just yonder, you 
know," said Mr. Bucket. 

Yes, I remembered that too, very well. 

" That was me," said Mr. Bucket. 

Seeing my surprise, he went on : 

"I drove down in a gig that afternoon, to look after that boy. 
You might have heard my wheels when you came out to look after 
him yourself, for I was aware of you and your little maid going up, 
when I was walking the horse down. Making an inquiry or two 
about him in the town, I soon heard what company he was in ; 
and was coming among the brick-fields to look for him, when I 
observed you bringing him home here." 

" Had he committed any crime ? " I asked. 

"None was charged against him," said Mr. Bucket, coolly lift- 
ing off his hat ; " but I suppose he wasn't over-particular. No. 
What I wanted him for, was in connection with keeping this very 
matter of Lady Dedlock quiet. He had been making his tongue 
more free than welcome, as to a small accidental service he had 
been paid for by the deceased Mr. Tulkinghorn ; and it wouldn't 
do, at any sort of price, to have him playing those games. So 
having warned him out of London, I made an afternoon of it to 
warn him to keep out of it now he tvas away, and go farther from 
it, and maintain a bright look-out that I didn't catch him coming 
back again." 

" Poor creature ! " said I. 

"Poor enough," assented Mr. Bucket, "and trouble enough, 
and well enough away from London, or anywhere else. I was 



BLEAK HOUSE. 71d 

regularly turned on my back when I found him taken up by your 
establishment, I do assure you." 

I asked him why? "Why, my dear?" said Mr. Bucket. 
" Naturally there was no end to his tongue then. He might as 
well have been born with a yard and a half of it, and a remnant 
over." 

Although I remember this conversation now, my head was in 
confusion at the time, and my power of attention hardly did more 
than enable me to understand that he entered into these particu- 
lars to divert me. With the same kind intention, manifestly, he 
often spoke to me of indifferent things, while his face was busy 
with the one object that we had in view. He still pursued this 
subject, as we turned in at the garden gate. 

"Ah!" said Mr. Bucket. "Here we are, and a nice retired 
place it is. Puts a man in mind of the country house in the 
Woodpecker tapping, that was known by the smoke which so 
gracefully curled. They're early with the kitchen fire, and that 
denotes good servants. But what you've always got to be careful 
of with servants, is, who comes to see 'em ; you never know what 
they're up to, if you don't know that. And another thing, my 
dear. Whenever you find a young man behind the kitchen door, 
you give that young man in charge on suspicion of being secreted 
in a dwelling-house with an unlawful purpose." 

We were now in front of the house ; he looked attentively and 
closely at the gravel for footprints, before he raised his eyes to the 
windows. 

" Do you generally put that elderly young gentleman in the 
same room, when he's on a visit here, Miss Summerson ? " he 
inquired, glancing at Mr. Skimpole's usual chamber. 

" You know Mr. Skimpole ! " said I. 

"What do you call him again?" returned Mr. Bucket, bending 
down his ear. " Skimpole, is it ? I've often wondered what his 
name might be. Skimpole. Not John, I should say, nor yet 
Jacob?" 

"Harold," I told him. 

" Harold. Yes. He's a queer bird is Harold," said Mr. Bucket 
eyeing me with great expression. 

" He is a singular character," said I. 

"No idea of money," observed Mr. Bucket. — "He takes it 
though ! " 

I involuntarily returned for answer, that I perceived Mr. Bucket 
knew him. 

" Why, now I'll tell you, Miss Summerson," he rejoined. " Your 
mind will be all the better for not running on one point too con- 



720 BLEAK HOUSE. 

tinually, and I'll tell you for a change. It was him as pointed out 
to me where Toughey was. I made up my mind, that night, to 
come to the door and ask for Toughey, if that was all • but, will- 
ing to try a move or so first, if any such was on the board, I just 
pitched up a morsel of gravel at that window where I saw a 
shadow. As soon as Harold opens it and I have had a look at 
him, thinks I, you're the man for me. So I smoothed him down 
a bit, about not wanting to disturb the family after they was gone 
to bed, and abovit its being a thing to be regretted that charitable 
young ladies should harbour vagrants ; and then, when I pretty well 
understood his ways, I said, I should consider a fypunnote well 
bestowed if I could relieve the premises of Toughey without caus- 
ing any noise or trouble. Then says he, lifting up his eyebrows in 
the gayest way, 'it's no use mentioning a fypunnote to me, my 
friend, because I'm a mere child in such matters, and have no idea 
of money.' Of course I understood what his taking it so easy 
meant ; and being now quite sure he was the man for me, I 
wrapped the note round a little stone and threw it up to him. 
Well ! He laughs and beams, and looks as innocent as you like, 
and says, ' But I don't know the value of these things. What am 
I to do with this ? ' ' Spend it, sir,' says I. ' But I shall be 
taken in,' he says, 'they won't give me the right change, I shall 
lose it, it's no use to me.' Lord, you never saw such a face as he 
carried it with ! Of course he told me where to find Toughey, and 
I found him." 

I regarded this as very treacherous on the part of Mr. Skimpole 
towards my Guardian, and as passing the usual bounds of his 
childish innocence. 

"Bounds, my dear?" returned Mr. Bucket. "Boimds? Now, 
Miss Summerson, I'll give you a piece of advice that your husband 
will find useful when you are happily married, and have got a 
family about you. Whenever a person says to you that they are 
as innocent as can be in all concerning money, look well after your 
own money, for they are dead certain to collar it, if they can. 
Whenever a person proclaims. to you 'In worldly matters I'm a 
child,' you consider that that person is only a crying off from being 
held accountable, and that you have got that person's number, and 
it's Number One. Now I am not a poetical man myself, except in 
a vocal way when it goes round a company, but I'm a practical 
one, and that's my experience. So's this rule. Fast and loose in 
one thing. Fast and loose in everything. I never knew it fail. 
No more will you. Nor no one. With which caution to the 
unwary, my dear, I take the liberty of pulling this here bell, and 
so go back to our business." 



BLEAK HOUSE. 721 

I believe it had not been for a moment out of his mind, any 
more than it had been out of my mind, or out of his face. The 
whole household were amazed to see me, without any notice, at 
that time in the morning, and so accompanied ; and their surprise 
was not diminished by my inquiries. No one, however, had been 
there. It could not be doubted that this was the truth. 

"Then, Miss Summerson," said my companion, "we can't be too 
soon at the cottage where those brickmakers are to be found. Most 
inquiries there I leave to you, if you'll be so good as to make 'em. 
The naturalest way is the best way, and the naturalest way is your 
own way." 

We set off again immediately. On arriving at the cottage, we 
found it shut up, and apparently deserted ; but one of the neigh- 
bours who knew me, and who came out when I was trying to make 
some one hear, informed me that the two women and their husbands 
now lived together in another house, made of loose rough bricks, 
which stood on the margin of the piece of ground where the kilns 
were, and where the long rows of bricks were drying. We lost no 
time in repairing to this place, which was within a few hvmdred 
yards ; and as the door stood ajar, I pushed it open. 

There were only three of them sitting at breakfast ; the child 
lying asleep on a bed in the corner. It was Jenny, the mother of 
the dead child, who was absent. The other woman rose on seeing 
me ; and the men, though they were, as usual, sulky and silent, each 
gave me a morose nod of recognition. A look passed between them 
when Mr. Bucket followed me in, and I was surprised to see that 
the woman evidently knew him. 

I had asked leave to enter, of course. Liz (the only name by 
which I knew her) rose to give me her own chair, but I sat down 
on a stool near the fire, and Mr. Bucket took a corner of the bed- 
stead. Now that I had to speak, and was among people with whom 
I was not familiar, I became conscious of being hurried and giddy. 
It was very difficult to begin, and I could not help bursting into 
tears. 

" Liz," said I, " I have come a long way in the night and through 
the snow, to inquire after a lady — " 

"Who has been here, you know," Mr. Bucket struck in, address- 
ing the whole group, with a composed propitiatory face ; " that's the 
lady the young lady means. The lady that was here last night, you 
know." 

" And who told you as there was anybody here ? " inquired 
Jenny's husband, who had made a surly stop in his eating, to lis- 
ten, and now measured him with his eye. 

" A person of the name of Micliael Jackson, in a blue welveteen 

3a 



722 BLEAK HOUSE. 

waistcoat with a double row of mother of pearl buttons," Mr. 
Bucket immediately answered. 

" He had as good mind his own business, whoever he is," growled 
the man. 

" He's out of employment, I believe," said Mr. Bucket, apologeti- 
cally for Michael Jackson, "and so gets talking." 

The woman had not resumed her chair, but stood faltering with 
her hand upon its broken back, looking at me. I thought she 
would have spoken to me privately, if she had dared. She was 
still in this attitude of uncertainty, when her husband, who was 
eating with a lump of bread and fat in one hand, and his clasp- 
knife in the other, struck the handle of his knife violently on the 
table, and told her with an oath to mind her business at any rate, 
and sit down. 

"I should like to have seen Jenny very much," said I, "for I 
am sure she would have told me all she could about this lady, whom 
I am very anxious indeed — you cannot think how anxious — to 
overtake. Will Jenny be here soon ? Where is she 1 " 

The woman had a great desire to answer, but the man, with 
another oath, openly kicked at her foot with his heavy boot. He 
left it to Jenny's husband to say what he chose, and after a dogged 
silence the latter turned his shaggy head towards me. 

" I'm not partial to gentlefolks coming into my place, as you've 
heerd me say afore now, I think, miss. I let their places be, and 
it's curous they can't let my place be. There'd be a pretty shine 
made if I was to go a wisitin theiti, I think. Howsever, I don't 
so much complain of you as of some others ; and I'm agreeable to 
make you a civil answer, though I give notice that I'm not a going 
to be drawed like a badger. Will Jenny be here soon 1 No she 
won't. Where is she? She's gone up to Limnun." 

" Did she go last night ? "' I asked. 

" Did she go last night ? Ah ! she went last night," he answered, 
with a sulky jerk of his head. 

" But was she here when the lady came ? And what did the 
lady say to her? And where is. the lady gone? iy)eg and pray 
you to be so kind as to tell me," said I, "for I am in great distress 
to know." 

" If my master would let me spealf , and not say a word of harm — " 
the woman timidly began. 

" Your master," said her husband, muttering an imprecation with 
slow emphasis, " will break your neck if you meddle with wot don't 
concern you." 

After another silence, the husband of the absent woman, turning 
to me again, answered me with his usual grumbling unwillingness. 



BLEAK HOUSE. 723 

" Wos Jenny here when the lady come 1 Yes, she wos here when 
the lady come. Wot did the lady say to her 1 Well, I'll tell you 
wot the lady said to her. She said 'You remember me as come 
one time to talk to you about the young lady as had been a wisit- 
ing of you ? You remember me as give you somethink handsome 
for a hankecher wot she had left ? ' Ah, she remembered. So we 
all did. Well, then, wos that young lady up at the house now ? 
No, she warn't up at the house now. Well, then, lookee here. 
The lady was upon a journey all alone, strange as we might think 
it, and could she rest herself where you're a setten, for a hour or so. 
Yes she could, and so she did. Then she went — it might be at 
twenty minutes past eleven, and it might be at twenty minutes 
past twelve ; we ain't got no watches here to know the time by, nor 
yet clocks. Where did she go? I don't know where she go'd. 
She went one way, and Jenny went another ; one went right to 
Lunnun, and t'other went right from it. That's all about it. Ask 
this man. He heerd it all, and see it all. He knows." 

The other man repeated, "That's all about it." 

" Was the lady crying ? " I inquired. 

" Devil a bit," returned the first man. " Her shoes was the worse, 
and her clothes was the worse, but she warn't — not as I see." 

The woman sat with her arms crossed, and her eyes upon the 
ground. Her husband had turned his seat a httle, so as to face 
her ; and kept his hammer-like hand upon the table, as if it were 
in readiness to execute his threat if she disobeyed him. 

" I hope you will not object to my asking your wife," said I, 
" how the lady looked 1 " 

" Come then ! " he gruffly cried to her. " You hear wot she 
says. Cut it short, and tell her." 

" Bad," replied the woman. " Pale and exhausted. Very 
bad." 

" Did she speak much 1 " 

"Not much, but her voice was hoarse." 

She answered, looking all the while at her husband for leave. 

" Was she Mnt 1 " said I. " Did she eat or drink here 1 " 

" Go on ! " said the husband, in answer to her look. " Tell 
her, and cut it short." 

" She had a little water, i^ss, and Jenny fetched her some 
bread and tea. But she hardly touched it." 

" And when she went from here " — I was proceeding, when 
Jenny's husband impatiently took me up. 

" When she went from here, she went right away Nor'ard by 
th'j high road. Ask on the road if you doubt me, and see if it 
warn't so. Now, there's the end. That's all about it." 



724 BLEAK HOUSE. 

I glanced at my companion ; and finding that he had already 
risen and was ready to depart, thanked them for what they had 
told me, and took my leave. The woman looked full at Mr. 
Bucket as he went out, and he looked full at her. 

"Now, Miss Summerson," he said to me, as we walked quickly 
away. " They've got her ladyship's watch among 'em. That's a 
positive fact." 

" You saw it ? " I exclaimed. 

" Just as good as saw it," he returned. " Else why should he 
talk about his 'twenty minutes past,' and about his having no 
watch to tell the time by 1 Twenty minutes ! He don't usually 
cut his time so fine as that. If he comes to half hours, it's as 
much as he does. Now, you see, either her ladyship gave him 
that watch, or he took it. I think she gave it him. Now, what 
should she give it him for ? What should she give it him for 1 " 

He repeated this question to himself several times, as we 
hurried on ; appearing to balance between a variety of answers 
that arose in his mind. 

"If time could be spared," said Mr. Bucket — "which is the 
only thing that can't be sj^ared in this case — I might get it out 
of that woman ; but it's too doubtful a chance to trust to, under 
present circumstances. They are up to keeping a close eye upon 
her, and any fool knows that a poor creetur like her, beaten and 
kicked and scarred and bruised from head to foot, will stand by the 
husband that ill uses her, through thick and thin. There's some- 
thing kept back. It's a pity but what we had seen the other 
woman." 

I regretted it exceedingly ; for she was very grateful, and I felt 
sure would have resisted no entreaty of mine. 

" It's possible. Miss Summerson," said Mr. Bucket, pondering 
on it, " that her ladyship sent her up to London with some word 
for you, and it's possible that her husband got the watch to let her 
go. It don't come out altogether so plain as to please me, but it's 
on the cards. Now I don't take kindly to laying out the money 
of Sir Leicester Dedlock, Baronet, on these Roughs, and I don't 
see my way to the usefulness of it at present. No ! So far, our 
road. Miss Summerson, is for'ard — straight ahead — and keeping 
everything quiet ! " 

We called at home once more, that I might send a hasty note to 
my Guardian, and then we hurried back to where we had left the 
carriage. The horses were brought out as soon as we were seen 
coming, and we were on the road again in a few minutes. 

It had set in snowing at daybreak, and it now snowed hard. 
The air was so thick with the darkness of the day and the density 



BLEAK HOUSE. 725 

of the foil, that we could see but a very little way in any direction. 
Although it was extremely cold, the snow was but partially frozen, 
and it churned — with a sound as if it were a beach of small shells 
— under the hoofs of the horses, into mire and water. They some- 
times slipped and floundered for a mile together, and we were 
obliged to come to a standstill to rest them. One horse fell 
three times in this first stage, and trembled so, and was so shaken, 
that the driver had to dismount from his saddle and lead him at 
last. 

I could eat nothing, and could not sleep ; and I grew so nervous 
under these delays, and the slow pace at which we travelled, that 
I had an unreasonable desire upon me to get out and walk. Yield- 
ing to my companion's better sense, however, I remained where I 
was. All this time, kept fresh by a certain enjoyment of the work 
in which he was engaged, he was up and down at every house we 
came to; addressing people whom he had never beheld before, as 
old acquaintances ; running in to warm himself at every fire he 
saw ; talking and drinking and shaking hands, at every bar and 
tap ; friendly with every waggoner, wheelwright, blacksmith, and 
toll-taker ; yet never seeming to lose time, and always mounting to 
the box again with his watchful, steady face, and his business-like 
" Get on, my lad ! " 

When we were changing horses the next time, he came from the 
stable yard, witb the wet snow encrusted upon him, and dropping 
off" him — plashing and crashing through it to his wet knees, as he 
had been doing frequently since we left Saint Albans — and spoke 
to me at the carriage side. 

" Keep up your spirits. It's certainly true that she came on 
here. Miss Summerson. There's not a doubt of the dress by this 
time, and the dress has been seen here." 

" Still on foot 1 " said I. 

" Still on foot. I think the gentleman you mentioned must be 
the point she's aiming at ; and yet I don't like his living down in 
her own part of the country, neither." 

"I know so little," said I. "There may be some one else 
nearer here, of whom I never heard." 

" That's trvie. But whatever you do, don't you fall a crying, 
my dear ; and don't you worry yourself no more than you can help. 
Get on, my lad ! " 

The sleet fell all that day unceasingly, a thick mist came on 
early, and it never rose or lightened for a moment. Such roads I 
had never seen. I sometimes feared we had missed the way, and 
got into the ploughed grounds, or the marshes. If I ever thought 
of the time I had been out, it presented itself as an indefinite 



726 BLEAK HOUSE. 

period of great duration ; and I seemed, in a strange way, never to 
have been free from the anxiety under which I then laboured. 

As we advanced, I began to feel misgivings that my companion 
lost confidence. He was the same as before with all the roadside 
people, but he looked graver when he sat by himself on the box. 
I saw his finger uneasily going across and across his mouth, during 
the whole of one long weary stage. I overheard that he began to 
ask the drivers of coaches and other vehicles coming towards us, 
what passengers they had seen in other coaches and vehicles that 
were in advance. Their replies did not encourage him. He 
always gave me a reassuring beck of his finger, and lift of his eye- 
lid as he got upon the box again ; but he seemed perplexed now, 
when he said, " Get on, my lad ! " 

At last, when we were changing, he told me that he had lost the 
track of the dress so long that he began to be surprised. It was 
nothing, he said, to lose such a track for one while, and to take it 
up for another while, and so on ; but it had disappeared here in an 
unaccountable manner, and we had not come upon it since. This 
corroborated the apprehensions I had formed, when he began to 
look at direction-posts, and to leave the carriage at cross roads for 
a quarter of an hour at a time, while he explored them. But I 
was not to be down-hearted, he told me, for it was as likely as not 
that the next stage might set us right again. 

The next stage, however, ended as that one ended ; we had no 
new clue. There was a spacious inn here, solitary, but a comfort- 
able substantial building, and as we drove in under a large gate- 
way, before I knew it, where a landlady and her pretty daughters 
came to the carriage door, entreating me to alight and refresh 
myself while the horses were making ready, I thought it would be 
uncharitable to refuse. They took me up-stairs to a warm room, 
and left me there. 

It was at the corner of the house, I remember, looking two 
ways. On one side, to a stable-yard open to a bye-road, where the 
ostlers were unharnessing the splashed and tired horses from the 
muddy carriage ; and beyond that, to the bye-road itself, across 
which the sign was heavily swinging : on the other side, to a wood 
of dark pine trees. Their branches were encumbered with snow, 
and it silently dropped off" in wet heaps while I stood at the win- 
dow. Night was setting in, and its bleakness was enhanced by 
the contrast of the pictured fire glowing and gleaming in the^ 
window-pane. As I looked among the stems of the trees, and fol-, 
lowed the discoloured marks in the snow where the thaw was sink- 
ing into it and undermining it, I thought of the motherly face 
brightly set off" by daughters that had just now welcomed me, and 
of my mother lying down in such a wood to die. | 



BLEAK HOUSE. 727 

I was frightened when I found them all about me, but I remem- 
bered that before I fainted I tried very hard not to do it ; and 
that was some little comfort. They cushioned me up, on a large 
sofa by the fire; and then the comely landlady told me that I 
must travel no further to-night, but must go to bed. But this 
put me into such a tremble lest they should detain me there, that 
she soon recalled her words, and compromised for a rest of half-an- 
hour. 

A good endearing creature she was. She, and her three fair 
girls all so busy about me. I was to take hot soup and broiled 
fowl, while Mr. Bucket dried himself and dined elsewhere ; but I 
could not do it, when a snug round table was presently spread 
by the fireside, though I was veiy unwilling to disappoint them. 
However, I could take some toast and some hot negus ; and as I 
really enjoyed that refreshment, it made some recompense. 

Punctual to the time, at the half-hour's end the carriage came 
rumbling under the gateway, and they took me down, warmed, 
refreshed, comforted by kindness, and safe (I assured them) not to 
faint any more. After I had got in and had taken a grateful leave 
of them all, the youngest daughter — a blooming girl of nineteen, 
who was to be the first married, they had told me — got upon the 
carriage step, reached in, and kissed me. I have never seen her 
from that hour, but I think of her to this hour as my friend. 

The transparent windows with the fire and light, looking so 
bright and warm from the cold darkness out of doors, were soon 
gone, and again we were crushing and churning the loose snow. 
We went on with toil enough ; but the dismal roads were not 
much worse than they had been, and the stage was only nine 
miles. My companion smoking on the box — I had thought at 
the last inn of begging him to do so, when I saw him standing at 
a gi'eat fire in a comfortable cloud of tobacco — was as vigilant as 
ever; and as quickly down and up again, when we came to any 
human abode or any human creature. He had lighted his little 
dark lantern, which seemed to be a favourite with hira, for we had 
lamps to the carriage ; and every now and then he turned it upon 
me, to see that I was doing well. There was a folding-window to 
the carriage-head, but I never closed it, for it seemed like shutting 
out hope. 

We came to the end of the stage, and still the lost trace was 
not recovered. I looked at him anxiously when we stopped to 
change ; but I knew by his yet graver face, as he stood watching 
the ostlers, that he had heard nothing. Almost in an instant 
afterwards, as I leaned back in my seat, he looked in, with his 
lighted lantern in his hand, an excited and quite diiferent man. 



728 BLEAK HOUSE. 

. " What is it ? " said I, starting. " Is she here ? " 

" No, no. Don't deceive yourself, my dear. Nobody's here. 
But I've got it ! " 

The crystallised snow was in his eyelashes, in his hair, lying in 
ridges on his dress. He had to shake it from his face, and get his 
breath, before he spoke to me. 

" Now, Miss Summerson," said he, beating his finger on the 
apron, " don't you be disappointed at what I'm a going to do. 
You know me. I'm Inspector Bucket, and you can trust me. 
We've come a long way ; never mind. Four horses out there 
for the next stage up ! Quick ! " 

There was a commotion in the yard, and a man came running 
out of the stables to know " if he meant up or down ? " 

" Up, I tell you ! Up ! An't it Enghsh 1 Up ! " 

" Up ? " said I, astonished. " To London ! Are we going 
back ? " 

"Miss Summerson," he answered, "back. Straight back as a 
die. You know me. Don't be afraid. I'll follow the other, by 
G— ." 

" The other 1 " I repeated. " Who 1 " 

" You called her Jenny, didn't you 1 I'll follow her. Bring 
those two pair out here, for a crown a man. Wake up, some of 
you ! " 

"You will not desert this lady we are in search of; you will 
not abandon her on such a night, and in such a state of mind 
as I know her to be in ! " said I, in an agony, and grasping his 
hand. 

" You are right, my dear, I won't. But I'll follow the other. 
Look alive here with them horses. Send a man for'ard in the 
saddle to the next stage, and let him send another for'ard again, 
and order four on, up, right through. My darling, don't you be 
afraid ! " 

These orders, and the way in which he ran about the yard, 
urging them, caused a general excitement that was scarcely less 
bewildering to me than the sudden change. But, in the height, 
of the confusion, a mounted man galloped away to order the relays, 
and our horses were put to with great speed. 

"My dear," said Mr. Bucket, jumping to his seat, and looking 
in again — "you'll excuse me if I'm too familiar — don't you fret 
and worry yourself no more than you can help. I say nothing else 
at present ; but you know me, my dear ; now, don't you 1 " 

I endeavoured to say that I knew he was far more capable than . 
I of deciding what we ought to do ; but was he sure that this was- 

right? Could I not go forward by myself in search of 1 

i 



BLEAK HOUSE. 729 

grasped his hand again in my distress, and whispered it to him — 
of my own mother. 

"My dear," he answered, "I know, I know, and would I put 
you wrong do you tliink? Inspector Bucket. Now you know 
me, don't you 1 " 

What could I say but yes ! 

" Then you keep up as good a heart as you can, and you rely 
upon me for standing by you, no less than by Sir Leicester Ded- 
lock, Baronet. Now, are you right there 1 " 

" All right, sir ! " 

" Off she goes, then. And get on, my lads ! " 

We were again upon the melancholy road by which we had 
come ; tearing up the miry sleet and thawing snow, as if they were 
torn up by a waterwheel. 



CHAPTER LVIII. 

A WINTRY DAY AND NIGHT. 

Still impassive, as behoves its breeding, the Dedlock town 
house carries itself as usual towards the street of dismal grandeur. 
There are powdered heads from time to time in the little windows 
of the hall, looking out at the untaxed powder falling all day from 
the sky ; and, in the same conservatory, there is peach blossom 
turning itself exotically to the great hall fire from the nipping 
weather out of doors. It is given out that my Lady has gone 
down into Lincolnshire, but is expected to return presently. 

Rumour, busy overmuch, however, will not go down into Lin- 
colnshire. It persists in flitting and chattering about town. It 
knows that that poor unfortunate man, Sir Leicester, has been 
sadly used. It hears, my dear child, all sorts of shocking things. 
It makes the world of five miles round, quite merry. Not to 
know that there is something wrong at the Dedlocks' is to augur 
yourself unknown. One of the peachy-cheeked charmers with the 
skeleton throats is already apprised of all the principal circum- 
stances that will come out before the Lords, on Sir Leicester's 
application for a bill of divorce. 

At Blaze and Sparkle's the jewellers, and at Sheen and Gloss's 
the mercers, it is and will be for several hours the topic of the age, 
the feature of the century. The patronesses of those establish- 
ments, albeit so loftily inscrutable, being as nicely weighed and 
measured there as any other article of tlie stock-in-trade, are per- 
fectly understood in this new fashion by the rawest hand behind 



730 BLEAK HOUSE. 

the counter. " Our people, Mr. Jones," said Blaze and Sparkle 
to the hand in question on engaging him, " our people, sir, are 
sheep — mere sheep. Where two or three marked ones go, all the 
rest follow. Keep those two or three in your eye, Mr. Jones, and 
you have the flock." So, likewise, Sheen and Gloss to ^Ae^V Jones, 
in reference to knowing where to have the fashionable people, and 
how to bring what they (Sheen and Gloss) choose, into fashion. 
On similar unerring principles, Mr. Sladdery the librarian, and 
indeed the great farmer of gorgeous sheep, admits this very day, 
"Why yes, sir, there certainly are reports concerning Lady Ded- 
lock, very current indeed among my high connection, sir. You 
see, my high connection must talk about something, sir ; and it's 
only to get a subject into vogue with one or two ladies I could 
name, to make it go down with the whole. Just what I should 
have done with those ladies, sir, in the case of any novelty you 
had left to me to bring in, they have done of themselves in this 
case through knowing Lady Dedlock, and being perhaps a little 
innocently jealous of her too, sir. You'll find, sir, that this topic 
will be very popular among my high connection. If it had been 
a speculation, sir, it would have brought money. And when I say 
so, you may trust to my being right, sir ; for I have made it my 
business to study my high connection, and to be able to wind it 
up like a clock, sir." 

Thus rumour thrives in the capital, and will not go down into 
Lincolnshire. By half-past five, post meridian, Horse Guards' 
time, it has even elicited a new remark from the Honourable Mr. 
Stables, which bids fair to outshine the old one, on which he has 
so long rested his colloquial reputation. This sparkling sally is 
to the effect that although he always knew she was the best 
groomed woman in the stud, he had no idea she was a bolter. It 
is immensely received in turf-circles. 

At feasts and festivals also : in firmaments she has often graced, 
and among constellations she outshone but yesterday, she is still 
the prevalent subject. What is it? Who is it? When was it? 
Where was it? How was it? She is discussed by her dear^ 
friends with all the genteelest slang in vogue, with the last new 
word, the last new manner, the last new drawl, and the perfection! 
of polite indifierence. A remarkable feature of the theme is, that' 
it is found to be so inspiring that several people come out upon it 
who never came out before — positively say things! William 
Buffy carries one of these smartnesses from the place where he 
dines, down to the House, where the Whip for his party hands 
it about with his snuff-box, to keep men together who want to be 
off, with such effect that the Speaker (who has had it privately 



BLEAK HOUSE. 731 

insinuated into his own ear under tiie corner of his wig) cries 
" Order at the bar ! " three times without mailing an impression. 

And not the least amazing circumstance connected with her 
being vaguely the town talk, is, that people hovering on the con- 
fines of Mr. Sladdery's high connection, people who know nothing 
and ever did know nothing about her, think it essential to their 
reputation to pretend that she is their topic too ; and to retail her 
at second-hand with the last new word and the last new manner, 
and the last new drawl, and the last new polite indifference, and 
all the rest of it, all at second-hand but considered equal to new, 
in inferior systems and to fainter stars. If there be any man of 
letters, art, or science, among these little dealers, how noble in 
him to support the feeble sisters on such majestic crutches ! 

So goes the wintry day outside the Dedlock mansion. How 
within it? 

Sir Leicester lying in his bed can speak a little, though with 
difficulty and indistinctness. He is enjoined to silence and to rest, 
and they have given him some opiate to lull his pain ; for his old 
enemy is very hard with him. He is never asleep, though some- 
times he seems to fall into a dull waking doze. He caused his 
bedstead to be moved out nearer to the window, when he heard it 
was such inclement weather; and his head to be so adjusted, that 
he could see the driving snow and sleet. He watches it as it falls, 
throughout the whole wintry day. 

Upon the least noise in the house, which is kept hushed, his 
hand is at the pencil. The old housekeeper, sitting by him, knows 
what he would write, and whispers " No, he has not come back 
yet. Sir Leicester. It was late last night when he went. He has 
been but a little time gone yet." 

He withdraws his hand, and falls to looking at the sleet and 
snow again, until they seem, by being long looked at, to fall so 
thick and fast, that he is obliged to close his eyes for a minute on 
the giddy whirl of white flakes and icy blots. 

He began to look at them as soon as it was light. The day is 
not yet far spent, when he conceives it to be necessary that her 
rooms should be prepared for her. It is very cold and wet. Let 
there be good fires. Let them know that she is expected. Please 
see to it yourself He writes to this purpose on his slate, and 
Mrs. Rouncewell with a heavy heart obeys. 

" For I dread, George," the old lady says to her son, who waits 
below to keep her company when she has a little leisure ; " I dread, 
my dear, that my Lady will never more set foot within these walls." 

" That's a bad presentiment, mother." 

" Nor yet within the walls of Chesney Wold, my dear." 



732 BLEAK HOUSE. 

" That's worse. But why, mother 1 " 

" When I saw my Lady yesterday, George, she looked to me — 
and I may say at me too — as if the step on the Ghost's Walk 
had almost walked her down." 

" Come, come ! You alarm yourself with old-story fears, 
mother." 

" No I don't, my dear. No I don't. It's going on for sixty 
year that I have been in this family, and I never had any fears for 
it before. But it's breaking up, my dear ; the ' great old Dedlock 
family is breaking up." 

"I hope not, mother." 

" I am thankful I have lived long enough to be with Sir Leicester 
in this illness and trouble, for I know I am not too old, nor too 
useless, to be a welcomer sight to him than anybody else in my 
place would be. But the step on the Ghost's Walk will walk my 
Lady down, George ; it has been many a day behind her, and now 
it will pass her, and go on." j 

"Well, mother dear, I say again, I hope not." 1 

" Ah, so do I, George," the old lady returns, shaking her head, 
and parting her folded hands. "But if my fears come true, and 
he has to know it, who will tell him ! " 

" Are these her rooms ? " 

"These are my Lady's rooms, just as she left them." 

" Why, now," says the trooper, glancing round him, and speaking 
in a lower voice, " I begin to understand how you come to think as 
you do think, mother. Rooms get an awful look about them when 
they are fitted up, like these, for one person you are used to see in 
them, and that person is away under any shadow : let alone being 
God knows where." 

He is not far out. As all partings foreshadow the great final 
one, — so, empty rooms, bereft of a familiar presence, mournfully 
whisper what your room and what mine must one day be. My 
Lady's state has a hollow look, thus gloomy and abandoned ; and in 
the inner apartment, where Mr. Bucket last night made his secret 
perquisition, the traces of her dresses and her ornaments, even the 
mirrors accustomed to reflect them when they were a portion of 
herself, have a desolate and vacant air. Dark and cold as the 
wintry day is, it is darker and colder in these deserted chambers 
than in many a hut that will barely exclude the weather ; and 
though the servants heap fires in the grates, and set the couches 
and the chairs within the warm glass screens that let their ruddy 
light shoot through to the furthest corners, there is a heavy cloud 
upon the rooms which no light will dispel. 

The old housekeeper and her son remain until the preparations 



BLEAK HOUSP:. 733 

are complete, and then she returns ujj-stairs. Volumnia has taken 
Mrs. Rouncewell's place in the meantime : though pearl necklaces 
and rouge pots, however calculated to embellish Bath, are but 
indifferent comforts to the invalid under present circumstances. 
Volumnia not being supposed to know (and indeed not knowing) 
what is the matter, has found it a ticklish task to offer appropriate 
observations ; and consequently has supplied their place with dis- 
tracting smoothings of the bed-linen, elaborate locomotion on ti^jtoe, 
vigilant peeping at her kinsman's eyes, and one exasperating whisper 
to herself of " He is asleep." In disproof of which superfluous 
remark, Sir Leicester has indignantly written on the slate "I am 
not." 

Yielding, therefore, the chair at the bedside to the quaint old 
housekeeper, Volumnia sits at a table a little removed, sympa- 
thetically sighing. Sir Leicester watches the sleet and snow, and 
listens for the returning steps that he expects. In the ears of his 
old servant, looking as if she had stepped out of an old picture- 
frame to attend a summoned Dedlock to another world, the silence 
is fraught with echoes of her own words, " Who will tell him ! " 

He has been under his valet's hands this morning, to be made 
presentable ; and is as well got up as the circumstances will allow. 
He is propped with pillows, his grey hair is bnished in its usual 
manner, his linen is arranged to a nicety, and he is wrapped in a 
responsible dressing gown. His eye-glass and his watch are ready 
to his hand. It is necessary — less to his own dignity now per- 
haps, than for her sake — that he should be seen as little dis- 
turbed, and as much himself, as may be. Women will talk, and 
Volumnia, though a Dedlock, is no exceptional case. He keeps 
her here, there is little doubt, to prevent her talking somewhere 
else. He is very ill ; but he makes his present stand against 
distress of mind and body, most courageously. 

The fair Volumnia being one of those sprightly girls who cannot 
long continue silent without imminent peril of seizure by the 
dragon Boredom, soon indicates the approach of that monster with 
a series of undisguisable yawns. Finding it impossible to sup- 
press those yawns by any other process than conversation, she 
compliments Mrs. Rouncewell on her son ; declaring that he posi- 
tively is one of the finest figures she ever saw, and as soldierly a 
looking person she should think, as what's his name, her favourite 
Life Guardsman — the man she dotes on — the dearest of creatures 
— who was killed at Waterloo. 

Sir Leicester hears this tribute with so much surprise, and 
stares about him in such a confused way, that Mrs. Rouncewell 
feels it necessary to explain. 



734 BLEAK HOUSE. 

"Miss Dedlock don't speak of my eldest son, Sir Leicester, but 
my youngest. I have found him. He has come home." 

Sir Leicester breaks silence with a harsh cry. "George? Your 
son George come home, Mrs. Rouncewell 1 " 

The old housekeeper wipes her eyes. " Thank God. Yes, Sir 
Leicester." 

Does this discovery of some one lost, this return of some one so 
long gone, come upon him as a strong confirmation of his hopes 1 
Does he think, " Shall I not, with the aid I have, recall her safely 
after this ; there being fewer hours in her case than there are 
years in his ? " 

It is of no use entreating him ; he is determined to speak now, 
and he does. In a thick crowd of sounds, but still intelligibly 
enough to be understood. 

" Why did you not tell me, Mrs. Rouncewell 1 " 

" It happened only yesterday. Sir Leicester, and I doubted your 
being well enough to be talked to of such things." 

Besides, the giddy Volumnia now remembers with her little scream 
that nobody was to have known of his being Mrs. Rouncewell's 
son, and that she was not to have told. But Mrs. Rouncewell pro- 
tests, with warmth enough to swell the stomacher, that of course 
she would have told Sir Leicester as soon as he got better. 

" Where is your son George, Mrs. Rouncewell ? " asks Sir 
Leicester. 

Mrs. Rouncewell, not a little alarmed by his disregard of the 
doctor's injunctions, replies, in London. 

" Where in London 1 " 

Mrs. Rouncewell is constrained to admit that he is in the 
house. 

"Bring him here to my room. Bring him directly." 

The old lady can do nothing but go in search of him. Sir 
Leicester, with such power of movement as he has, arranges him- 
self a little, to receive him. When he has done so, he looks out 
again at the falling sleet and snow, and listens again for the 
returning steps. A quantity of straw has been tumbled down in 
the street to deaden the noises there, and she might be driven to 
the door perhaps without his hearing wheels. 

He is lying thus, apparently forgetful of his newer and minor 
surprise, when the housekeeper returns, accompanied by her trooper 
son. Mr. George approaches softly to the bedside, makes his 
bow, squares his chest, and stands, with his face flushed, very 
heartily ashamed of himself. 

"Good Heaven, and it is really George Rouncewell!" exclaims 
Sir Leicester. " Do you remember me, George ? " 



BLEAK HOUSE. 735 

The trooiDer needs to look at him, and to separate this sound 
from that sound, before he knows what he has said ; but doing 
this, and being a little helped by his mother, he replies : 

" I must have a very bad memory, indeed, Sir Leicester, if I 
I failed to remember you." 

"When I look at you, George Rouncewell," Sir Leicester 
observes with difficulty, " I see something of a boy at Ohesney 
Wold — I remember well — very well." 

He looks at the trooper until tears come into his eyes, and then 
, he looks at the sleet and snow again. 

"I ask your pardon. Sir Leicester," says the trooper, "but 
would you accept of my arms to raise you up? You would lie 
easier, Sir Leicester, if you would allow me to move you." 
"If you please, George Rouncewell; if you will be so good." 
The trooper takes him in his arms like a child, lightly raises him, 
J and turns him with his face more towards the window. "Thank 
you. You have your mother's gentleness," returns Sir Leicester, 
" and your own strength. Thank you." 

He signs to him with his hand not to go away. George quietly 
^ remains at the bedside, waiting to be spoken to. 
J " Why did you wish for secrecy 1 " It takes Sir Leicester some 
time to ask this. 

ii " Tnily I am not much to boast of. Sir Leicester, and I — 

I should still, Sir Leicester, if you was not so indisposed — 

, wliich I hope you will not be long — I should still hope for the 

favour of being allowed to remain unknown in general. That 

involves explanations not very hard to be gixessed at, not very 

,well timed here, and not very creditable to myself. However 

opinions may differ on a variety of subjects, I should think it 

would be universally agreed. Sir Leicester, that I am not much to 

.boast of" 

I "You have been a soldier," observes Sir Leicester, "and a 
4 faithful one." 

George makes his military bow. " As far as that goes. Sir 
„ Leicester, I have done my duty under discipline, and it was the 
(least I could do." 

"You find me," saj^s Sir Leicester, whose eyes are much attracted 
(towards him, "far from well, George Rouncewell." 
^ " I am very sorry both to hear it and to see it. Sir Leicester." 
,, "I am sure you are. No. In addition to my older malady, I 
/ have had a sudden and bad attack. Something that deadens — " 
making an endeavour to pass one hand down one side ; " and 
^1 confuses — " touching his lips. 

George, with a look of assent and sympatliy, makes another bow. 



736 BLEAK HOUSE. 

The different times when tliey were both young men (the trooper 
much the younger of the two), and h;)oked at one another down at 
Chesney Wold, arise before them both, and soften both. 

Sir Leicester, evidently with a great determination to say, in 
his own manner, something that is on his mind before relapsing 
into silence, tries to raise himself among his pillows a little more. 
George, observant of the action, takes him in his arms again and 
places him as he desires to be. "Thank you, George. You are 
another self to me. You have often carried my spare gun at Ches- 
ney Wold, George. You are familiar to me in these strange cir- 
cumstances, very familiar." He has put Sir Leicester's sounder 
arm over his shoulder in lifting him up, and Sir Leicester is slow in 
drawing it away again, as he says these words. 

" I was about to add," he presently goes on, " I was about to 
add, respecting this attack, that it was unfortunately simultaneous 
with a slight misunderstanding between my Lady and myself. I 
do not mean that there was any difference between us (for there has 
been none), but that there was a misunderstanding of certain cir- 
cumstances important only to ourselves, which deprives me, for a 
little while, of my Lady's society. She has found it necessary to 
make a journey, — I trust will shortly return. Volumnia, do I 
make myself intelligible ? The words are not quite under my com- 
mand, in the manner of pronouncing them." 

Volumnia understands him perfectly; and in truth he delivers 
himself with far greater plainness than could have been supposed 
possible a minute ago. The effort by which he does so, is written 
in the anxious and labouring expression of his face. Nothing but 
the strength of his purpose enables him to make it. 

" Therefore, Volumnia, I desire to say in your presence — and in 
the presence of my old retainer and friend, Mrs. Rouncewell, whose 
truth and fidelity no one can question — and in the presence of her 
son George, who comes back like a familiar recollection of my youth 
in the home of my ancestors at Chesney Wold — in case I should 
relapse, in case I should not recover, in case I should lose both 
my speech and the power of writing, though I hope for better 
things — " 

The old housekeeper weeping silently ; Volumnia in the greatest 
agitation, with the freshest bloom on lier cheeks ; the trooper with 
his arms folded and his head a little bent, respectfully attentive. 

" Therefore I desire to say, and to call you all to witness — 
beginning, Volumnia, with yourself, most solemnly — that I am on 
unaltered terras with Lady Dedlock. That I assert no cause what- 
ever of complaint against her. That I have ever had the strongest 
affection for her, and that I retain it undiminished. Say this to 



BLEAK HOUSE. 737 

herself, and to every one. If you ever say less than this, you will 
be guilty of deliberate falsehood to me." 

Volumnia tremblingly protests that she will observe his injunc- 
tions to the letter. 

" My Lady is too high in position, too handsome, too accomplished, 
, too superior in most respects to the best of those by whom she is 
surrounded, not to have her enemies and traducers, I dare say. Let 
it be known to them, as I make it known to you, that being of 
sound mind, memory, and understanding, I revoke no disposition I 
have made in her favour. I abridge nothing I have ever bestowed 
upon her. I am on unaltered terms with her, and I recall — having 
the full power to do it if I were so disposed, as you see — no act I 
I have done for her advantage and happiness." 

, His formal array of words might have at any other time, as it has 
1 often had, something ludicrous in it ; but at this time it is serious 
; and affecting. His noble earnestness, his fidelity, his gallant shield- 

I ing of her, his generous conquest of his own wrong and his own 
i; pride for her sake, are simply honourable, manly, and true. Noth- 

II ing less worthy can be seen through the lustre of such qualities in 
1 the commonest mechanic, nothing less worthy can be seen in the 

■ best-born gentleman. In such a light both aspire alike, both rise 
alike, both children of the dust shine equally. 

■/ Overpowered by his exertions, he lays his head back on his pil- 

i lows, and closes his eyes ; for not more than a mimute ; when he 

! again resumes his watching of the weather, and his attention to the 

- muffled sounds. In the rendering of those little services, and in the 

manner of their acceptance, the trooper has become installed as 

( necessary to him. Nothing has been said, but it is quite under- 

' stood. He falls a step or two backward to be out of sight, and 

•: mounts guard a little behind his mother's chair. 

ji The day is now beginning to decline. The mist, and the sleet 

i into which the snow has all resolved itself, are darker, and the blaze 

, begins to tell more vividly upon the room walls and furniture. The 

gloom augments ; the bright gas springs up in the streets ; and the 

pertinacious oil lamps which yet hold their ground there, with their 

• source of life half frozen and half thawed, twinkle gaspingly, like 

1 fiery fish out of water — as they are. The world, which has been 

rumbling over the straw and pulling at the bell " to inquire," begins 

to go home, begins to dress, to dine, to discuss its dear friend, with 

all the last new modes, as already mentioned. 

H Now, does Sir Leicester become worse ; restless, uneasy, and in 

■ great pain. Volumnia lighting a candle (with a predestined apti- 
: tude for doing something objectionable) is bidden to put it out 

again, for it is not yet dark enough, Yet it is very dark too j as 

3b 



738 BLEAK HOUSE. 



I 



dark as it will be all night. By-and-bye she tries again. No ! Put 
it out. It is not dark enough yet. 

His old housekeeper is the first to understand that he is striving 
to uphold the fiction with himself that it is not growing late. 

"Dear Sir Leicester, my honoured master," she softly whispers, 
" I must, for your own good, and my duty, take the freedom of 
begging and praying that you will not lie here in the lone darkness, 
watching and waiting, and dragging through the time. Let me 
draw the curtains and light the candles, and make things more com- 
fortable about you. The church-clocks will strike the hours just 
the same, Sir Leicester, and the night will pass away just the same. 
My Lady will come back, just the same." 

"I know it, Mrs. Bounce well, but I am weak — and he has been 
so long gone." 

" Not so very long, Sir Leicester. Not twenty-four hours yet." 

" But that is a long time. it is a long time ! " 

He says it with a groan that wrings her heart. 

She knows that this is not a period for bringing the rough light 
upon him ; she thinks his tears too sacred to be seen, even by her. 
Therefore, she sits in the darkness for a while, without a word ; 
then gently begins to move about ; now stirring the fire, now 
standing at the dark window looking out. Finally he tells her, 
with recovered self-command, " As you say, Mrs. Rouncewell, it is 
no worse for being confessed. It is getting late, and they are not 
come. Light the room ! " When it is lighted, and the weather shut 
out, it is only left to him to listen. 

But they find that, however dejected and ill he is, he brightens 
when a quiet pretence is made of looking at the fires in her rooms, 
and being sure that everything is ready to receive her. Poor pre- 
tence as it is, these allusions to her being expected keep up hope 
within him. 

Midnight comes, and with it the same blank. The carriages in 
the streets are few, and other late sounds in that neighbourhood 
there are none, unless a man so very nomadically drunk as to stray 
into the frigid zone goes brawling and bellowing along the pave- 
ment. Upon this wintry night it is so still, that listening to the 
intense silence is like looking at intense darkness. If any distant 
sound be audible in this case, it departs through the gloom like a 
feeble light in that, and all is heavier than before. 

The corporation of servants are dismissed to bed (not unwilling 
to go, for they were up all last night), and only Mrs. Rouncewell 
and George keep watch in Sir Leicester's room. As the night lags 
tardily on — or rather when it seems to stop altogether, at between 
two and three o'clock — thej-- find a restless craving on him to 



BLEAK HOUSE. 739 

know more about the weather, now he cannot see it. Hence 
George, patrolling regularly every half-hour to the rooms so care- 
fully looked after, extends his march to the hall-door, looks about 
him, and brings back the best report he can make of the worst of 
nights ; the sleet still falling, and even the stone foot-ways lying 
ankle-deep in icy sludge. 

Volumnia, in her room up a retired landing on the staircase — 
the second turning past the end of the carving and gilding — a 
cousinly room containing a fearful abortion of a portrait of Sir 
Leicester, banished for its crimes, and commanding in the day a 
solemn yard, planted with dried-up shrubs like antediluvian speci- 
mens of black tea — is a prey to horrors of many kinds. Not last 
nor least among them, possibly, is a horror of what may befall her 
little income, in the event, as she expresses it, "of anything hap- 
pening " to Sir Leicester. Anything, in this sense, meaning one 
thing only, and that the last thing that can happen to the con- 
sciousness of any baronet in the known world. 

An effect of these horrors is, that Volumnia finds she cannot go 
to bed in her own room, or sit by the fire in her own room, but 
must come forth with her fair head tied u]^ in a profusion of shawl, 
and her fair form enrobed in drapery, and parade the mansion like 
a ghost : particularly haunting the rooms, warm and luxurious, 
prepared for one who still does not return. Solitude under such 
circumstances being not to be thought of, Volumnia is attended by 
her maid, who, impressed from her own bed for that purpose, ex- 
tremely cold, very sleepy, and generally an injured maid as con- 
demned by circumstances to take office with a cousin, when she 
had resolved to be maid to nothing less than ten thousand a year, 
has not a sweet expression of countenance. 

The periodical visits of the trooper to these rooms, however, in 
the course of his patrolling, is an assurance of protection and com- 
pany, both to mistress and maid, which renders them very accept- 
able in the small hours of the night. Whenever he is heard 
advancing, they both make some little decorative preparation to 
receive him ; at other times, they divide their watches into short 
scraps of oblivion, and dialogues, not wholly free from acerbity, as 
to whether Miss Dedlock, sitting with her feet upon the fender, 
was or was not falling into the fire when rescued (to her great 
displeasure) by her guardian genius the maid. 

" How is Sir Leicester, now, Mr. George ? " inquires Volumnia, 
adjusting her cowl over her head. 

" Why, Sir Leicester is much the same, miss. He is very low 
and ill, and he even wanders a little sometimes." 

" Has he asked for me 1 " inquires Volumnia tenderly. 



740 BLEAK HOUSE. 

" Why no, I can't say he has, miss. Not within my hearing, 
that is to say." 

"This is a truly sad time, Mr. George." 

" It is indeed, miss. Hadn't you better go to bed ? " 

" You had a deal better go to bed. Miss Dedlock," quoth the 
maid, sharply. 

But Volumnia answers No ! No ! She may be asked for, she 
may be wanted at a moment's notice. She never should forgive 
herself " if anything was to happen " and she was not on the spot. 
She declines to enter on the question, mooted by the maid, how 
the spot comes to be there, and not in her own room (which is 
nearer to Sir Leicester's) ; but staunchly declares that on the spot 
she will remain. Volumnia further makes a merit of not havin: 
" closed an eye " — as if she had twenty or thirty — though it ii 
hard to reconcile this statement with her having most indisputabl; 
opened two within five minutes. 

But when it comes to four o'clock, and still the same blank, 
Volumnia's constancy begins to fail her, or rather it begins to 
strengthen ; for she now considers that it is her duty to be ready 
for the morrow, when much may be expected of her ; that, in fact, 
howsoever anxious to remain upon the spot, it may be required of 
her, as an act of self-devotion, to desert the spot. So, when the 
trooper reappears with his " Hadn't you better go to bed, miss?' 
and when the maid protests, more sharply than before, "You had 
a deal better go to bed. Miss Dedlock ! " she meekly rises and says, 
" Do with me what you think best ! " 

Mr. George undoubtedly thinks it best to escort her on his arnj 
to the door of her cousinly chamber, and the maid as undoubtedly 
thinks it best to hustle her into bed with mighty little ceremony, 
Accordingly, these steps are taken; and now the trooper, in his 
rounds, has the house to himself 

There is no improvement in the weather. From the portico- 
from the eaves, from the parapet, from every ledge and post anc 
pillar, drips the thawed snow. It has crept, as if for shelter, intc 
the lintels of the great door — under it, into the corners of the 
windows, into every chink and crevice of retreat, and there wastei 
and dies. It is falling still ; upon the roof, upon the skylight 
even through the skylight, and drip, drip, drip, with the regularit; 
of the Ghost's Walk, on the stone floor below. 

The trooper, his old recollections awakened by the solita: 
grandeur of a great house — no novelty to him once at Chesney 
Wold — goes up the stairs and through the chief rooms, holding 
up his light at arm's length. Thinking of his varied fortunes 
within the last few weeks, and of his rustic boyhood, and of the 



BLEAK HOUSE. 741 

two periods of his life so strangely brought together across the 
wide intermediate space ; thinking of the murdered man whose 
image is fresh in his mind ; thinking of the lady who has disap- 
peared from these very rooms, and the tokens of whose recent 
presence are all here ; thinking of the master of the house up- 
stairs, and of the foreboding " Who will tell him ! " he looks here 
and looks there, and reflects how he might see something now, 
which it would tax his boldness to walk up to, lay his hand upon, 
and prove to be a fancy. But it is all blank ; blank as the dark- 
ness above and below, while he goes up the great staircase again ; 
blank as the oppressive silence. 

" All is still in readiness, George Rouncewell ? " 

" Quite orderly and right, Sir Leicester." 

*' No word of any kind 1 " 

The trooper shakes his head. 

"No letter that can possibly have been overlooked?" 

But he knows there is no such hope as that, and lays his head 
down without looking for an answer. 

Very familiar to him, as he said himself some hours ago, 
George Rouncewell lifts him into easier positions through the long 
remainder of the blank wintry night ; and, equally familiar with 
his unexpressed wish, extinguishes the light, and undraws the cur- 
tains at the first late break of day. The day comes like a phan- 
tom. Cold, colourless, and vague, it sends a warning streak before 
it of a deathlike hue, as if it cried out, " Look what I am bringing 
you, who watch there ! Who will tell him ! " 



CHAPTER LIX. 

Esther's narrative. 

It was three o'clock in the morning when the houses outside 
London did at last begin to exclude the country, and to close us in 
with streets. We had made our way along roads in a far worse 
condition than when we had traversed them by daylight, both the 
fall and the thaw having lasted ever since ; but the energy of my 
companion had never slackened. It had only been, as I thought, 
of less assistance than the horses in getting us on, and it had often 
aided them. They had stopped exhausted halfway up hills, they had 
been driven through streams of turbulent water, they had slipped 
down and become entangled with the harness; but he and his 
little lantern had been always ready, and when the mishap was set 
right, I had never heard any variation in his cool " Get on, my lads ! " 



1 



742 BLEAK HOUSE. 

The steadiness and confidence with which he had directed ou: 
journey back, I could not account for. Never wavering, he neve: 
even stopped to make an inquiry until we were within a few milei 
of London. A very few words, here and there, were then enough 
for him ; and thus we came, at between three and four o'clock in 
the morning, into Islington. 

I will not dwell on the suspense and anxiety with which I 
reflected all this time, that we were leaving my mother farther an^ 
farther behind every minute. I think I had some strong hope thai 
he must be right, and could not fail to have a satisfactory objec 
in following tliis woman ; but I tormented myself with question- 
ing it, and discussing it, during the whole journey. What was t 
ensue when we found her, and what could compensate us for this" 
loss of time, were questions also that I could not possibly dismiss ; 
my mind was quite tortured by long dwelling on such reflections, 
when we stopped. 

We stopped in a high-street, where there was a coach-stand. 
My companion paid our two drivers, who were as completely cov- 
ered with splashes as if they had been dragged along the roads like 
the carriage itself; and giving them some brief direction where 
to take it, lifted me out of it, and into a hackney-coach he had 
chosen from the rest. 

" Why, my dear ! " he said, as he did this. " How wet you 
are ! " 

I had not been conscious of it. But the melted snow had found 
its way into the carriage ; and I had got out two or three times 
when a fallen horse was plunging and had to be got up ; and the 
wet had penetrated my dress. I assured him it was no matter; 
but the driver, who knew him, would not be dissuaded by me from 
running down the street to his stable, whence he brought an arm- 
ful of clean dry straw. They shook it out and strewed it well 
about me, and I found it warm and comfortable. 

" Now, my dear," said Mr. Bucket, with his head in at the 
window after I was shut up. "We're going to mark this person 
down. It may take a little time, but you don't mind that. 
You're pretty sure that I've got a motive. Ain't you ? " 

I little thought what it was — little thought in how short a 
time I should understand it better ; but I assured him that I had 
confidence in him. 

" So you may have, my dear," he returned. "And I tell you 
what ! If you only repose half as much confidence in me as I 
repose in you, after what I've experienced of you, that'll do. Lord ! 
you're no trouble at all. I never see a young woman in any sta- 
tion of society — and I've seen many elevated ones too — conduct 



BLEAK HOUSE. 743 

herself like you have conducted yourself, since you was called out 
of your bed. You're a pattern, you know, that's what you are," 
said Mr. Bucket, warmly; "you're a pattern." 

I told him I was very glad, as indeed I was, to have been no 
hindrance to him ; and that I hoped I should be none now. 

"My dear," he returned, "when a young lady is as mild as 
she's game, and as game as she's mild, that's all I ask, and more 
than I expect. She then becomes a Queen, and that's about what 
you are yourself." 

With these encouraging words — they really were encouraging 
to me under those lonely and anxious circumstances — he got upon 
the box, and we once more drove away. Where we drove, I neither 
knew then, nor have ever known since ; but we appeared to seek 
out the narrowest and worst streets in London. Whenever I saw 
him directing the driver, I was prepared for our descending into 
a deeper complication of such streets, and we never failed to 
do so. 

Sometimes we emerged upon a wider thoroughfare, or came to 
a larger building than the generality, well lighted. Then we 
stopped at offices like those we had visited when we began our 
journey, and I saw him in consultation with others. Sometimes 
he would get down by an archway, or at a street corner, and mys- 
teriously show the light of his little lantern. This would attract 
similar lights from various dark quarters, like so many insects, 
and a fresh consultation would be held. By degrees we appeared 
to contract our search within narrower and easier limits. Single 
police officers on duty could now tell Mr. Bucket what he wanted 
to know, and point to him where to go. At last we stopped for 
a rather long conversation between him and one of these men, 
which I supposed to be satisfactory from his manner of nodding 
from time to time. When it was finished he came to me, looking 
very busy and very attentive. 

"Now, Miss Summerson," he said to me, "you won't be 
alarmed whatever comes off, I know. It's not necessary for me 
to give you any further caution, than to tell you that we have 
marked this person down, and that you may be of use to me 
before I know it myself I don't like to ask such a thing, my 
dear, but would you walk a little way ? " 

Of course I got out directly, and took his arm. 

"It ain't so easy to keep your feet," said Mr. Bucket; "but 
take time." 

Although I looked about me confusedly and hurriedly, as we 
crossed a street, I thought I knew the place. " Are we in Hol- 
born ? " I asked him. 



744 BLEAK HOUSE. 

"Yes," said Mr. Bucket. "Do you know this turning?" 

"It looks like Chancery Lane." 

"And was christened so, my dear," said Mr. Bucket. 

We turned down it ; and as we went, shuffling through 
sleet, I heard the clocks strike half-past five. We passed on iii 
silence, and as quickly as we could with such a foothold ; when 
some one coming towards us on the narrow pavement, wrapped 
in a cloak, stopped and stood aside to give me room. In the same 
moment I heard an exclamation of wonder, and my own name, 
from Mr. Woodcourt. I knew his voice very well. 

It was so unexpected, and so — I don't know what to call it, 
whether pleasant or painful — to come upon it after my feverish 
wandering journey, and in the midst of the night, that I could not 
keep back the tears from my eyes. It was like hearing his voice 
in a strange country. 

"My dear Miss Summerson, that you should be out at this 
hour, and in such weather ! " 

He had heard from my Guardian of my having been called away 
on some uncommon business, and said so to dispense with any 
explanation. I told him that we had but just left a coach, and 
were going — but then I was obliged to look at my companion. 

" Why, you see, Mr. Woodcourt ; " he had caught the name 
from me ; " we are a going at present into the next street. — In- 
spector Bucket." 

Mr. Woodcourt, disregarding my remonstrances, had hurriedly 
taken off his cloak, and was putting it about me. " That's a good 
move, too," said Mr. Bucket, assisting, "a very good move." 

"May I go with you?" said Mr. Woodcourt. I don't know 
whether to me or my companion. 

" Why, Lord ! " exclaimed Mr. Bucket, taking the answer on 
himself " Of course you may." 

It was all said in a moment, and they took me between them, 
wrapped in the cloak. 

" I have just left Richard," said Mr. Woodcourt. " I have 
been sitting with him since ten o'clock last night." 

" dear me, he is ill ! " 

" No, no, believe me ; not ill, but not quite well. He was 
depressed and faint — you know he gets so worried and so worn 
sometimes — and Ada sent to me of course ; and when I came 
home I found her note, and came straight here. Well ! Richard 
revived so mucli after a little while, and Ada was so happy, and 
so convinced of its being my doing, though God knows I had little 
enough to do with it, that I remained with him until he had been 
fast asleep some hours. As fast asleep as she is now, I hope ! " 



BLEAK HOUSE. 745 

His friendly and familiar way of speaking of them, his un- 
affected devotion to them, the grateful confidence with which I 
knew he had inspired my darling, and the comfort he was to her ; 
could I separate all this from his promise to me ? How thankless 
I must have been if it had not recalled the words he said to me, 
when he was so moved by the change in my appearance : "I will 
accept him as a trust, and it shall be a sacred one ! " 

We now turned into another narrow street. " Mr. Woodcourt," 
said Mr. Bucket, who had eyed him closely as we came along, 
"our business takes us to a law-stationer's here; a certain Mr. 
Snagsby's. What, you know him, do you ? " He was so quick 
that he saw it in an instant. 

" Yes, I know a little of him, and have called upon him at this 
place." 

"Indeed, sir?" said Mr. Bucket. "Then will you be so good 
as to let me leave Miss Summerson with you for a moment, while 
I go and have half a word with him ? " 

The last police officer with whom we had conferred was standing 
silently behind us. I was not aware of it until he struck in, on 
my saying I heard some one crying. 

"Don't be alarmed, miss," he returned. "It's Snagsby's ser- 
vant." 

" Why, you see," said Mr. Bucket, " the girl's subject to fits, 
and has 'em bad upon her to-night. A most contrairy circumstance 
it is, for I want certain information out of that girl, and she must 
be brought to reason somehow." 

" At all events, they wouldn't be up yet, if it wasn't for her, 
Mr. Bucket," said the other man. "She's been at it pretty well 
aU night, sir." 

"Well, that's true," he returned. "My light's burnt out. 
Show yours a moment." 

All this passed in a whisper, a door or two from the house in 
which I could faintly hear crying and moaning. In the little 
round of light produced for the purpose, Mr. Bucket went up 
to the door and knocked. The door was opened, after he 
had knocked twice ; and he went in, leaving us standing in the 
street. 

" Miss Summerson," said Mr. Woodcourt ; "if, without obtrud- 
ing myself on your confidence, I may remain near you, pray let me 
do so." 

"You are truly kind," I answered. "I need wish to keep no 
secret of my own from you ; if I keep any, it is another's." 

" I quite understand. Trust me, I will remain near you only so 
long as I can fully respect it." 



746 BLEAK HOUSE. 

" I trust implicitly to you," I said. " I know and deeply feel 
how sacredly you keep your pi'omise." 

After a short time the little round of light shone out again, and 
Mr. Bucket advanced towards us in it with his earnest face. 
"Please to come in. Miss Summerson," he said, "and sit down 
by the fire. Mr. Woodcourt, from information I have received I 
understand you are a medical man. Would you look to this girl 
and see if anything can be done to bring her round. She has a 
letter somewhere that I particularly want. It's not in her box, 
and I think it must be about her ; but she is so twisted and 
clenched up, that she is diificult to handle without hurting." 

We all three went into the house together ; although it was cold 
and raw, it smelt close too from being up all night. In the pas- 
sage, behind the door, stood a scared, sorrowful-looking little man 
in a grey coat, who seemed to have a naturally polite manner and 
spoke meekly. 

"Down-stairs, if you please, Mr. Bucket," said he. "The lady 
will excuse the front kitchen ; we use it as our workaday sitting- 
room. The back is Ouster's bed-room, and in it she's a carrying 
on, poor thing, to a frightful extent ! " 

We went down-stairs, followed by Mr. Snagsby, as I soon found 
the little man to be. In the front kitchen, sitting by the fire, was 
Mrs. Snagsby, with very red eyes and a very severe expression of 
face. 

"My little woman," said Mr. Snagsby, entering behind us, "to 
waive — not to put too fine a point upon it, my dear — hostilities, 
for one single moment, in the course of this pi'olonged night, here 
is Inspector Bucket, Mr. Woodcourt, and a lady." 

She looked very much astonished, as she had reason for doing, 
and looked particularly hard at me. 

"My little woman," said Mr. Snagsby, sitting down in the 
remotest corner by the door, as if he were taking a liberty, "it is 
not unlikely that you may inquire of me why Inspector Bucket, 
Mr. Woodcourt, and a lady, call upon us in Cook's Court, Cursitor 
Street, at the present hour. I don't know. I have not the least 
idea. If I was to be informed, I should despair of understanding, 
and I'd rather not be told." 

He appeared so miserable, sitting with his head upon his hand, 
and I appeared so unwelcome, that I was going to ofier an apology, 
when Mr. Bucket took the matter on himself. 

"Now, Mr. Snagsby," said he, "the best thing you can do, is 
to go along with Mr. Woodcourt to look after your Ouster " 

" My Ouster, Mr. Bucket ! " cried Mr. Snagsby. " Go on, sir, 
go on. I shall be charged with that next." 



BLEAK HOUSE. 747 

"And to hold the candle," pursued Mr. Bucket without correct- 
ing himself, "or hold her, or make yourself useful in any way 
you're asked. Which there's not a man alive more ready to do ; 
for you're a man of urbanity and suavity, you know, and you've 
got the sort of heart that can feel for another. (Mr. Woodcourt, 
would you be so good as see to her, and if you can get that letter 
from her, to let me have it as soon as ever you can ? ) " 

As they went out, Mr. Bucket made me sit down in a corner by 
the fire, and take off my wet shoes, which he turned up to dry 
upon the fender ; talking all the time. 

"Don't you be at all put out, miss, by the want of a hospitable 
look from Mrs. Snagsby there, because she's under a mistake alto- 
gether. She'll find that out, sooner than will be agreeable to a 
lady of her generally correct manner of forming her thoughts, 
because I'm a going to explain it to her." Here, standing on the 
hearth with his wet hat and shawls in his hand, himself a pile of 
wet, he turned to Mrs. Snagsby. " Now, the first thing that I say 
to you, as a married woman possessing what you may call charms, 
you know — ' Believe me, if all those endearing, and cetrer ' — 
you're well acquainted with the song, because it's in vain for you 
to tell me that you and good society are strangers — charms — 
attractions, mind you, that ought to give you confidence in your- 
self — is, that you've done it." 

Mrs. Snagsby looked rather alarmed, relented a little, and fal- 
tered, what did Mr. Bucket mean ? 

" What does Mr. Bucket mean ? " he repeated ; and I saw, by 
his face, that all the time he talked he was listening for the dis- 
covery of the letter — • to my own great agitation ; for I knew then 
how important it must be ; " I'll tell you what he means, ma'am. 
Go and see Othello acted. That's the tragedy for you." 

Mrs. Snagsby consciously asked why. 

" Why 1 " said Mr. Bucket. " Because you'll come to that, if 
you don't look out. Why, at the very moment while I speak, I 
know what your mind's not wholly free from, respecting this young 
lady. But shall I tell you who this young lady is ? Now, come, 
you're what I call an intellectual woman — with your soul too 
large for your body, if you come to that, and chafing it — and you 
know me, and you recollect where you saw me last, and what was 
talked of in that circle. Don't you ? Yes ! Very well. This 
young lady is that young lady." 

Mrs. Snagsby appeared to understand the reference better than 
I did at the time. 

"And Toughey — him as you call Jo — was mixed up in the 
same business, and no other; and the law-writer that you know of, 



748 BLEAK HOUSE. 

■was mixed up in the same business, and no other ; and your hus 
band, with no more knowledge of it than your great grandfather, 
was mixed up {by Mr. Tulkinghorn deceased, his best customer) 
in the same business, and no other ; and the whole bileing of peo- 
ple was mixed up in the same business, and no other. And yet a 
married woman, possessing your attractions, shuts her eyes (and 
sparklers too), and goes and runs her delicate-formed head against 
a wall. Why, I am ashamed of you ! (I expected Mr. Woodcourt 
might have got it, by this time.) " 

Mrs. Snagsby shook her head, and put her handkerchief to her 
eyes. 

"Is that all?" said Mr. Bucket, excitedly. "No. See what 
happens. Another person mixed up in that business and no 
other, a person in a wretched state, comes here to-night, and is 
seen a speaking to your maid-servant ; and between her and your 
maid-servant there passes a paper that I would give a hundred 
pound for, down. What do you do? You hide and you watch 
'em, and you pounce upon that maid-servant — knowing what she's 
subject to, and what a little thing will bring 'em on — in that 
surprising manner, and with that severity, that, by the Lord, she 
goes off and keeps off, when a Life may be hanging upon that 
girl's words ! " 

He so thoroughly meant what he said now, that I involuntarily 
clasped my hands, and felt the room turning away from me. But 
it stopped. Mr. Woodcourt came in, put a paper into his hand, 
and went away again. 

"Now Mrs. Snagsby, the only amends you can make," said 
Mr. Bucket, rapidly glancing at it, "is to let me speak a word to 
this young lady in private here. And if you know of any help 
that you can give to that gentleman in the next kitchen there, 
or can think of any one thing that's likelier than another to bring 
the girl round, do your swiftest and best ! " In an instant she was 
gone, and he had shut the door. " Now, my dear, you're steady, 
and quite sure of yourself?" 

"Quite," said I. 

"Whose writing is that ?" 

It was my mother's. A pencil-writing, on a crushed and torn 
piece of paper, blotted with wet. Folded roughly like a letter, 
and directed to me, at my Guardian's. 

"You know the hand," he said; "and if you are firm enough 
to read it to me, do ! But be particular to a word." 

It had been written in portions, at different times. I read what 
follows : 



BLEAK HOUSE. 749 

"I came to the cottage with two objects.- First, to see the 
dear one, if I could, once more — but only to see her — not to 
speak to her, or let her know that I was near. The other object, 
to elude pursuit, and to be lost. Do not blame the mother for 
her share. The assistance that she rendered me, she rendered on 
my strongest assurance that it was for the dear one's good. You 
remember her dead child. The men's consent I bought, but her 
help was freely given." 

"*I came.' That was written," said my companion, "when 
she rested there. It bears out what I made of it. I was right." 
The next was written at another time. 

" I have wandered a long distance, and for many hours, and I 
know that I must soon die. These streets ! I have no purpose 
but to die. When I left, I had a worse; but I am saved from 
adding that guilt to the rest. Cold, wet, and fatigue, are suflBcient 
causes for my being found dead ; but I shall die of others, though 
I suffer from these. It was right that all that had sustained me 
should give way at once, and that I should die of terror and my 
conscience." 

"Take courage," said Mr. Bucket. "There's only a few words 
more." 

Those, too, were written at another time. To all appearance, 
almost in the dark. 

" I have done all I could to be lost. I shall be soon forgotten 
so, and shall disgrace him least. I have nothing about me by 
which I can be recognised. This paper I part with now. The 
place where I shall lie down, if I can yet get so far, has been often 
in my mind. Farewell. Forgive." 

Mr. Bucket, supporting me with his arm, lowered me gently 
into my chair. " Cheer up ! Don't think me hard with you, my 
dear, but, as soon as ever you feel equal to it, get your shoes on 
and be ready." 

I did as he required ; but I was left there a long time, praying 
for my unhappy mother. They were all occupied with the poor 
girl, and I heard Mr. Woodcourt directing them, and speaking to 
her often. At length he came in with Mr. Bucket ; and said that 
as it was important to address her gently, he thought it best that 
I should ask her for whatever information we desired to obtain. 
There was no doubt that she could now reply to questions, if she 



750 BLEAK HOUSE. 



1 

ud, I 



were soothed, and not alarmed. The questions, Mr. Bucket said 
were, how she came by the letter, what passed between her and 
the person who gave her the letter, and where the person went. 
Holding my mind as steadily as I could to these points, I went 
into the next room with them. Mr. Woodcourt would have 
remained outside, but at my solicitation went in with us. 

The poor girl was sitting on the floor where they had laid her 
down. They stood around her, though at a little distance, that 
she might have air. She was not pretty, and looked weak and 
poor ; but she had a plaintive and a good face, though it was 
still a little wild. I kneeled on the ground beside her, and put 
her poor head on my shoulder ; whereupon she drew her arm round 
my neck, and burst into tears. 

"My poor girl," said I, laying my face against her forehead; 
for indeed I was crying too, and trembling; "it seems cruel to 
trouble you now, but more depends on our knowing something 
about this letter, than I could tell you in an hour." 

She began piteously declaring that she didn't mean any harm, 
she didn't mean any harm, Mrs. Snagsby ! 

" We are all sure of that," said I. " But pray tell me how you 
got it." 

" Yes, dear lady, I will, and tell you true. I'll tell true, indeed, 
Mrs. Snagsby." 

" I am sure of that," said I. " And how was it ? " 

" I had been out on an errand, dear lady — long after it was 
dark — quite late ; and when I came home, I found a common- 
looking person, all wet and muddy, looking up at our house. 
When she saw me coming in at the door, she called me back, and 
said did I live here 1 and I said yes, and she said she knew only 
one or two places about here, but had lost her way, and couldn't 
find them. what shall I do, what shall I do ! They won't 
believe me ! She didn't say any harm to me, and I didn't say any 
harm to her, indeed, Mrs. Snagsby ! " 

It was necessary for her mistress to comfort her : which she 
did, I must say, with a good deal of contrition : before she could 
be got beyond this. 

" She could not find those places," said I. 

" No ! " cried the girl, shaking her head. " No ! Couldn't find 
them. And she was so faint, and lame, and miserable, so 
wretched ! that if you had seen her, Mr. Snagsby, you'd have 
given her half-a-crown, I know ! " 

"Well, Guster, my girl," said he, at first not knowing what to 
say. " I hope I should." 

" And yet she was so well spoken," said the girl, looking at me 



BLEAK HOUSE. 751 

with wide-open eyes, " that it made a person's heart bleed. And 
so she said to me, did I know the way to the burying-ground 1 
And I asked her which burying-ground 1 And she said, the poor 
burying-ground. And so I told her I had been a poor child 
myself, and it was according to parishes. But she said she meant 
a poor burying-ground not very far from here, where there was an 
archway, and a step, and an iron gate." 

As I watched her face, and soothed her to go on, I saw that 
Mr. Bucket received this with a look which I could not separate 
from one of alarm. 

" dear, dear ! " cried the girl, pressing her hair back with her 
hands, " what shall I do, what shall I do ! She meant the 
burying-ground where the man was buried that took the sleeping- 
stuff — that you came home and told us of, Mr. Snagsby — that 
frightened me so, Mrs. Snagsby. I am frightened again. 
Hold me ! " 

"You are so much better now," said I. "Pray, pray tell me 
more." 

" Yes I will, yes I will ! But don't be angry with me, that's a 
dear lady, because I have been so ill." 

Angry with her, poor soul ! 

" There ! Now I will, now I will. So she said, could I tell 
her how to find it, and I said yes, and I told her ; and she looked 
at me with eyes like almost as if she was blind, and herself all 
waving back. And so she took out the letter, and showed it me, 
and said if she was to put that in the post-office, it would be 
rubbed out and not minded and never sent ; and would I take it 
from her, and send it, and the messenger would be paid at the 
house? And so I said yes, if it was no harm, and she said no 
— no harm. And so I took it from her, and she said she had 
nothing to give me, and I said I was poor myself and consequently 
wanted nothing. And so she said God bless you ! and went." 

" And did she go — ? " 

"Yes," cried the girl, anticipating the inquiry, "yes ! she went 
the way I had shown her. Then I came in, and Mrs. Snagsby 
came behind me from somewhere, and laid hold of me, and I was 
frightened." 

Mr. Woodcourt took her kindly from me. Mr. Bucket wi'apped 
me up, and immediately we were in the street. Mr. Woodcourt 
hesitated, but I said, " Don't leave me now ! " and Mr. Bucket 
added, " You'll be better with us, we may want you ; don't lose 
time ! " 

I have the most confused impressions of that walk. I recollect 
that it was neither night nor day ; that morning was dawning, but 



762 BLEAK HOUSE. 

the street-lamps were not yet put out ; that the sleet was still fall- 
ing, and that all the ways were deep with it. I recollect a few 
chilled people passing in the streets. I recollect the wet house- 
tops, the clogged and bursting gutters and water-spouts, the 
mounds of blackened ice and snow over which we passed, the 
narrowness of the courts by which we went. At the same time I 
remember, that the poor girl seemed to be yet telling her story 
audibly and plainly in my hearing ; that I could feel her resting 
on my arm ; that the stained house fronts put on human shapes 
and looked at me; that great water-gates seemed to be opening 
and closing in my head, or in the air ; and that the unreal things 
were more substantial than the real. 

At last we stood under a dark and miserable covered way, 
where one lamp was burning over an iron gate, and where the 
morning faintly struggled in. The gate was closed. Beyond it, 
was a burial-ground — a dreadful spot in which the night was 
very slowly stirring; but where I could dimly see heaps of dis- 
honoured graves and stones, hemmed in by filthy houses, with a 
few dull lights in their windows, and on whose walls a thick 
humidity broke out like a disease. On the step at the gate, 
drenched in the fearful wet of such a place, which oozed and 
splashed down everywhere, I saw, with a cry of pity and horror, a 
woman lying — Jenny, the mother of the dead child. 

I ran forward, but they stopped me, and Mr. Woodcourt 
entreated me, with the greatest earnestness, even with tears, before 
I went up to the figure to listen for an instant to what Mr. Bucket 
said. I did so, as I thought. I did so, as I am sure. 

" Miss Summerson, you'll understand me, if you think a moment. 
They changed clothes at the cottage." 

They changed clothes at the cottage. I could repeat the words 
in my mind, and I knew what they meant of themselves ; but I 
attached no meaning to them in any other connection. 

" And one returned," said Mr. Bucket, " and one went on. And 
the one that went on, only went on a certain way agreed upon to 
deceive, and then turned across country, and went home. Think a 
moment ! " 

I could repeat this in my mind too, but I had not the least idea 
what it meant. I saw before me, lying on the step, the mother of 
the dead child. She lay there, with one arm creeping round a bar 
of the iron gate, and seeming to embrace it. She lay there, who 
had so lately spoken to my mother. She lay there, a distressed, 
unsheltered, senseless creature. She who had brought my mother's 
letter, who could give me the only clue to where my mother was ; 
she, who was to guide us to rescue and save her whom we had 




THE MORNING. 



3c 



754 BLEAK HOUSE. 

sought so far, who had come to this condition by some means con- 
nected with my mother that I could not follow, and might be pass- 
ing beyond our reach and help at that moment ; she lay there, and 
they stopped me ! I saw, but did not comprehend, the solemn 
and compassionate look in Mr. Woodcourt's face. I saw, but did 
not comprehend, his touching the other on the breast to keep him 
back. I saw him stand uncovered in the bitter air, with a rever- 
ence for something. But my vmderstanding for all this was gone. 

I even heard it said between them : 

" Shall she go 1 " 

" She had better go. Her hands should be the first to touch 
her. They have a higher right than ours." 

I passed on to the gate, and stooped down. I lifted the heavy 
head, put the long dank hair aside, and turned the face. And it 
was my mother, cold and dead. 



CHAPTER LX. 

PERSPECTIVE. 

I PROCEED to other passages of my narrative. From the good- 
ness of all about me, I derived such consolation as I can never think 
of unmoved. I have already said so much of myself, and so much 
still remains, that I will not dwell upon my sorrow. I had an ill- 
ness, but it was not a long one ; and I would avoid even this 
mention of it, if I could quite keep down the recollection of their 
sympathy. 

I proceed to other passages of my narrative. 

During the time of my illness, we were still in London, where 
Mrs. Woodcourt had come, on my Guardian's invitation, to stay 
with us. When my Guardian thought me well and cheerful enough 
to talk with him in our old way — though I could have done that 
sooner, if he would have believed me — I resumed my work, and 
my chair beside his. He had appointed the time himself, and we 
were alone. 

"Dame Trot," said he, receiving me with a kiss, "welcome to 
the Growlery again, my dear. I have a scheme to develop, little 
woman. I purpose to remain here, perhaps for six months, per- 
haps for a longer time — as it may be. Quite to settle here for a 
while, in short." 

" And in the meanwhile leave Bleak House ? " said I. 

"Aye, my dear! Bleak House," he returned, "must learn to 
take care of itself." 



BLEAK HOUSE. 755 

I thought his tone sounded sorrowful ; but, looking at him, I 
saw his kind face lighted up by its pleasantest smile. 

" Bleak House," he repeated ; and his tone did not sound sorrow- 
ful, I found, " must learn to take care of itself. It is a long way 
from Ada, my dear, and Ada stands much in need of you." 

"It is like you, Guardian," said I, "to have been taking that 
into consideration, for a happy surprise to both of us." 

" Not so disinterested either, my dear, if you moan to extol me 
for that virtue ; since, if you were generally on the road, you could 
be seldom with me. And besides ; I wish to hear as much and as 
often of Ada as I can, in this condition of estrangement from poor 
Rick. Not of her alone, but of him too, poor fellow." 

" Have you seen Mr. Woodcourt this morning. Guardian 1 " 

"I see Mr. Woodcourt every morning, Dame Durden." 

" Does he stUl say the same of Richard ? " 

" Just the same. He knows of no direct bodily illness that he 
has ; on the contrary, he believes that he has none. Yet he is not 
easy about him ; who can be ? " 

My dear girl had been to see us lately, every day : sometimes 
twice in a day. But we had foreseen, all along, that this would 
only last until I was quite myself. We knew full well that her 
fervent heart was as full of affection and gratitude towards her 
cousin John as it had ever been, and we acquitted Richard of lay- 
ing any injunctions upon her to stay away ; but we knew on the 
other hand that she felt it a part of her duty to him, to be sparing 
of her visits at our house. My Guardian's delicacy had soon per- 
ceived this, and had tried to convey to her that he thought she 
was right. 

"Dear, unfortunate, mistaken Richard," said I. "When will 
he awake from his delusion ! " 

"He is not in the way to do so now, my dear," replied my 
Guardian. " The more he suffers, the more averse he will be to 
me : having made me the principal representative of the great 
occasion of his suffering." 

I could not help adding, " So unreasonably ! " 

" Ah, Dame Trot, Dame Trot ! " returned my Guardian, " what 
shall we find reasonable in Jarndyce and Jarndyce ! Unreason and 
injustice at the top, unreason and injustice at the heart and at the 
bottom, unreason and injustice from beginning to end — if it ever 
has an end — how should poor Rick, always hovering near it, pluck 
reason out of it ? He no more gathers grapes from thorns, or figs 
from thistles, than older men did, in old times." 

His gentleness and consideration for Richard, whenever we spoke 
of him, touched me so, that I was always silent on this subject 
very soon. 



756 BLEAK HOUSE. 



nnrl 



" I suppose the Lord Chancellor, and the Vice Chancellors, and 
the whole Chancery battery of great guns, would be infinitely aston- 
ished by such unreason and injustice in one of their suitors," pur- 
sued my Guardian. " When those learned gentlemen begin to raise 
moss-roses from the powder they sow in their wigs, I shall begin 
to be astonished too ! " 

He checked himself in glancing towards the window to look where 
the wind was, and leaned on the back of my chair instead. 

" Well, well, little woman ! To go on, my dear. This rock we 
must leave to time, chance, and hopeful circumstance. We must 
not shipwreck Ada upon it. She cannot afford, and he cannot 
afford, the remotest chance of another separation from a friend. 
Therefore, I have particularly begged of Woodcourt, and I now par- 
ticularly beg of you, my dear, not to move this subject with Rick. 
Let it rest. Next week, next month, next year, sooner or later, 
he will see me with clearer eyes. I can wait." 

But I had already discussed it with him, I confessed ; and so, I 
thought, had Mr. Woodcourt. 

" So he tells me," returned my Guardian. " Very good. He 
has made his protest, and Dame Durden has made hers, and there 
is nothing more to be said about it. Now, I come to Mrs. Wood- 
court. How do you like her, my dear ? " 

In answer to this question, which was oddly abrupt, I said I 
liked her very much, and thought she was more agreeable than she 
used to be. 

"I think so too," said my Guardian. " Less pedigree ? Not so 
much of Morgan-ap — what's his name 1 " 

That was what I meant, I acknowledged ; though he was a very 
harmless person, even when we had had more of him. 

" Still, upon the whole, he is as well in his native mountains," 
said my Guardian. " I agree with you. Then, little woman, can 
I do better for a time than retain Mrs. Woodcourt here ? " 

No. And yet 

My Guardian looked at me, waiting for what I had to say. 

I had nothing to say. At least I had nothing in my mind that 
I could say. I had an undefined impression that it might have 
been better if we had had some other inmate, but I could hardly 
have explained why, even to myself Or, if to myself, certainly 
not to anybody else. 

"You see," said my Guardian, "our neighbourhood is in Wood- 
court's way, and he can come here to see her as often as he likes, 
which is agreeable to them both ; and she is familiar to us, and 
fond of you." 

Yes. That was uudeniable. I had nothing to say against it. 



BLEAK HOUSE. 757 

I could not have suggested a better airangement ; but I was not 
quite easy in my mind. Esther, Esther, why not? Esther, think ! 

"It is a very good plan indeed, dear Guardian, and we could 
not do better." 

" Sure, little woman 1 " 

Quite sure. I had had a moment's time to think, since I had 
urged that duty on myself, and I was quite sure. 

" Good," said my Guardian. " It shall be done. Carried unani- 
mously." 

" Carried unanimously," I repeated, going on with my work. 

It was a cover for his book-table that I happened to be orna- 
menting. It had been laid by on the night preceding my sad 
journey, and never resumed. I showed it to him now, and he 
admired it highly. After I had explained the pattern to him, 
and all the great effects that were to come out by-and-bye, I thought 
I would go back to our last theme. 

"You said, dear Guardian, when we spoke of Mr. Woodcourt 
before Ada left us, that you thought he would give a long trial to 
another country. Have you been advising him since ? " 

"Yes, little woman; pretty often." 

" Has he decided to do so ? " 

"I rather think not." 

"Some other prospect has opened to him, perhaps?" said I. 

"Why — yes — perhaps," returned my Guardian, beginning his 
answer in a very deliberate manner. "About half a year hence 
or so, there is a medical attendant for the poor to be appointed 
at a certain place in Yorkshire. It is a thriving place, pleasantly 
situated ; streams and streets, town and country, mill and moor ; 
and seems to present an opening for such a man. I mean, a man 
whose hopes and aims may sometimes lie (as most men's sometimes 
do, I dare say) above the ordinary level, but to whom the ordinary 
level will be high enough after all, if it should prove to be a way 
of usefulness and good service leading to no other. All generous 
spirits are ambitious, I suppose ; but the ambition that calmly 
trusts itself to such a road, instead of spasmodically trying to fly 
over it, is of the kind I care for. It is Woodcourt's kind." 

"And will he get this appointment?" I asked. 

"Why, little woman," returned my Guardian, smiling, "not 
being an oracle, I cannot confidently say ; but I think so. His 
reputation stands very high ; there were people from that part of 
the country in the shipwreck ; and, strange to say, I believe the 
best man has the best chance. You must not suppose it to be 
a fine endowment. It is a veiy, very commonplace affair, my 
dear; an appointment to a great amount of work and a small 



758 BLEAK HOUSE. 

amount of pay ; but better things will gather about it, it may be 
fairly hoped." 

" The poor of that place will have reason to bless the choice, if 
it falls on Mr. Wooclcourt, Guardian." 

"You are right, little woman; that I am sure they will." 

We said no more about it, nor did he say a word about the 
future of Bleak House. But it was the first time I had taken my 
seat at his side in my mourning dress, and that accounted for it 
I considered. 

I now began to visit my dear girl every day, in the dull dark 
corner where she lived. The morning was my usual time ; but 
whenever I found I had an hour or so to spare, I put on my bon- 
net and bustled off to Chancery Lane. They were both so glad 
to see me at all hours, and used to brighten up so when they 
heard me opening the door and coming in (being quite at home, 
I never knocked), that I had no fear of becoming troublesome just 
yet. 

On these occasions I frequently found Richard absent. At other 
times he would be writing, or reading papers in the Cause, at that 
table of his, so covered with papers, which was never disturbed. 
Sometimes I would come upon him, lingering at the door of Mr. 
Vholes's ofiice. Sometimes I would meet him in the neighbour- 
hood, lounging about, and biting his nails. I often met him wan- 
dering in Lincoln's Inn, near the place where I had first seen him, 

how different, how different ! 

That the money Ada brought him was melting away with the 
candles I used to see burning after dark in Mr. Vholes's office, 

1 knew very well. It was not a large amount in the beginning ; 
he had married in debt ; and I could not fail to understand, by this 
time, what was meant by Mr. Vholes's shoulder being at the wheel 
— as I still heard it was. My dear made the best of housekeepers, 
and tried hard to save ; but I knew that they were getting poorer 
and poorer every day. 

She shone in the miserable corner like a beautiful star. She 
adorned and graced it so, that it became another place. Paler 
than she had been at home, and a little quieter than I had thought 
natural when she was yet so cheerful and hopeful, her face was so 
unshadowed, that I half believed she was blinded by her love for 
Eichard to his ruinous career. 

I went one day to dine with them, while I was under this im- 
pression. As I turned into Symond's Inn, I met little Miss Flite 
coming out. She had been to make a stately call upon the wards 
in Jarndyce, as she still called them, and had derived the highest 
gratification from that ceremony. Ada had already told me that 



BLEAK HOUSE. 759 

she called every Monday at five o'clock, with one little extra white 
bow in her bonnet, which never appeared there at any other time, 
and with her largest reticule of documents on her arm. 

" My dear ! " she began. " So delighted ! How do you do ! 
So glad to see you. And you are going to visit our interesting 
Jarndyce wards 1 To be sure ! Our beauty is at home, my dear, 
and will be charmed to see you." 

"Then Richard is not come in yet?" said I. "I am glad of 
that, for I was afraid of being a little late." 

"No, he is not come in," returned Miss Flite. "He has had 
a long day in court. I left him there, with Vholes. You don't 
like Vholes, I hope 1 Don't like Vholes. Dan-gerous man ! " 

" I am afraid you see Richard oftener than ever now ? " said I. 

"My dearest," returned Miss Flite, "daily and hourly. You 
know what I told you of the attraction on the Chancellor's table ? 
My dear, next to myself he is the most constant suitor in court. 
He begins quite to amuse our little party. Ve-ry friendly little 
party, are we not?" 

It was miserable to hear this from her poor mad lips, though it 
was no surprise. 

"In short, my valued friend," pursued Miss Flite, advancing 
her lips to my ear, with an air of equal patronage and mystery, 
"I must tell you a secret. I have made him my executor. 
Nominated, constituted, and appointed him. In my will. Ye-es." 

" Indeed ? " said I. 

"Ye-es," repeated Miss Flite, in her most genteel accents, "my 
executor, administrator, and assign. (Our Chancery phrases, my 
love.) I have reflected that if I should wear out, he will be able 
to watch that judgment. Being so very regular in his attendance." 

It made me sigh to think of him. 

" I did at one time mean," said Miss Flite, echoing the sigh, 
"to nominate, constitute, and appoint poor Gridley. Also very 
regular, my charming girl. I assure you, most exemplary ! But 
he wore out, poor man, so I have appointed his successor. Don't 
mention it. This is in confidence." 

She carefully opened her reticule a little way, and showed me a 
folded piece of paper inside, as the appointment of which she 
spoke. 

" Another secret, my dear. I have added to my collection of 
birds." 

" Really, Miss Flite ? " said I, knowing how it pleased her to 
have her confidence received with an appearance of interest. 

She nodded several times, and her face became overcast and 
gloomy. " Two more. I call them the Wards in Jarndyce. 



760 BLEAK HOUSE. 



They are caged up with all the others. With Hope, Joy, Youth, 
Peace, Rest, Life, Dust, Ashes, Waste, Want, Ruin, Despair, Mad- 
ness, Death, Cunning, Folly, Words, Wigs, Rags, Sheepskin, Plun- 
der, Precedent, Jargon, Gammon, and Spinach ! " 

The poor soul kissed me, with the most troubled look I had ever 
seen in her ; and went her way. Her manner of running over the 
names of her birds, as if she were afraid of hearing them even 
from her own lips, quite chilled me. 

This was not a cheering preparation for my visit, and I could 
have dispensed with the company of Mr. Vholes, when Richard 
(who arrived within a minute or two after me) brought him to 
share our dinner. Although it was a very plain one, Ada and 
Richard were for some minutes both out of the room, together, 
helping to get ready what we were to eat and drink. Mr. Vholes 
took that opportunity of holding a little conversation in a low 
voice with me. He came to the window where I was sitting, and 
began upon Symond's Inn. 

" A dull place. Miss Summerson, for a life that is not an official 
one," said Mr. Vholes, smearing the glass with his black glove to 
make it clearer for me. 

" There is not much to see here," said I. 

"Nor to hear, miss," returned Mr. Vholes. "A little music 
does occasionally stray in ; but we are not musical in the law, and 
soon eject it. I hope Mr. Jarndyce is as well as his friends could 
wish him ? " 

I thanked Mr. Vholes, and said he was quite well. 

" I have not the pleasure to be admitted among the number of 
his friends myself," said Mr. Vholes, "and I am aware that the 
gentleman of our profession are sometimes regarded in such quar- 
ters with an unfavourable eye. Our plain course, however, under 
good report and evil report, and all kinds of prejudice (we are the 
victims of prejudice), is to have everything openly carried on. How 
do you find Mr. C looking, Miss Summerson ? " 

"He looks very ill. Dreadfully anxious." 

"Just so," said Mr. Vholes. 

He stood behind me, with his long black figure reaching nearly 
to the ceiling of those low rooms ; feeling the pimples on his face 
as if they were ornaments, and speaking inwardly and evenly as 
though there were not a human passion or emotion in his nature. 

" Mr. Woodcourt is in attendance upon Mr. 0, I believe ? " he 
resumed. 

" Mr. Woodcourt is his disinterested friend," I answered. 

" But I mean in professional attendance, medical attendance." 

" That can do little for an unhappy mind," said I. 



1 

th, r 



BLEAK HOUSE. 761 

"Just so," said Mr. Vholes. 

So slow, so eager, so bloodless and gaunt, I felt as if Richard 
were wasting away beneath the eyes of this adviser, and there 
were something of the Vampire in him. 

"Miss Summerson," said Mr. Vholes, veiy slowly rubbing his 
gloved hands, as if, to his cold sense of touch, they were much the 
same in black kid or out of it, " this was an ill-advised marriage of 
Mr. C's." 

I begged he would excuse me for discussing it. They had been 
engaged when they were both very young, I told him (a little 
indignantly), and when the prospect before them was much fairer 
and brighter. When Richard had not yielded himself to the 
unhappy influence which now darkened his life. 

" Just ^0," assented Mr. Vholes again. " Still, with a view to 
everything being openly carried on, I will, with your permission. 
Miss Summerson, observe to you that I consider this a very ill- 
advised marriage indeed. I owe the opinion, not only to Mr. C's 
connections, against whom I should naturally wish to protect my- 
self, but also to my own reputation — dear to myself, as a profes- 
sional man aiming to keep respectable ; dear to my three girls at 
home, for whom I am striving to realise some little independence ; 
dear, I will even say, to my aged father, whom it is my privilege 
to support." 

"It would become a veiy different marriage, a much happier 
and better marriage, another marriage altogether, Mr. Vholes," said 
I, "if Richard were persuaded to turn his back on the fatal pursuit 
in which you are engaged with him." 

Mr. Vholes, with a noiseless cough — or rather gasp — into one 
of his black gloves, inclined his head as if he did not wholly dispute 
even that. 

"Miss Summerson," he said, "it may be so ; and I freely admit 
that the young lady who has taken Mr. C's name upon herself in 
so ill-advised a manner — you will I am sure not quarrel with me 
for throwing out that remark again, as a duty I owe to Mr. C's 
connections — - is a highly genteel young lady. Business has pre- 
vented me from mixing much with general society, in any but a 
professional character ; still I trust I am competent to perceive 
that she is a highly genteel young lady. As to beauty, I am not 
a judge of that myself, and I never did give much attention to it 
from a boy ; but I dare say the young lady is equally eligible, in 
that point of view. She is considered so (I have heard) among the 
clerks in the Inn, and it is a point more in their way than in mine. 
In reference to Mr. C's pursuit of his interests " 

" ! His interests, Mr. Vholes ! " 



762 BLEAK HOUSE. 

" Pardon me," returned Mr. Vholes, going on in exactly the 
same inward and dispassionate manner, " Mr. C takes certain in- 
terests under certain wills disputed in the suit. It is a term we 
use. In reference to Mr. C's pursuit of his interests, I mentioned 
to you. Miss Summerson, the first time I had the pleasure of see- 
ing you, in my desire that everything should be openly carried on 
— I used those words, for I happened afterwards to note them in 
my diary, which is producible at any time — I mentioned to you 
that Mr. C had laid down the principle of watching his own inter- 
ests ; and that when a client of mine laid down a principle which 
was not of an immoral (that is to say, unlawful) nature, it de- 
volved upon me to cany it out. I have carried it out ; I do carry 
it out. But I will not smooth things over, to any connection of 
Mr. C's, on any account. As open as I was to Mr. Jarndyce, I 
am to you. I regard it in the light of a professional duty to be 
so, though it can be charged to no one. I openly say, unpalatable 
as it may be, that I consider Mr. C's affairs in a very bad way, ' 
that I consider Mr. C himself in a very bad way, and that I regard 
this as an exceedingly ill-advised marriage. — Am I here, sir ? 
Yes, I thank you ; I am here, Mr. C, and enjoying the pleasure of 
some agreeable conversation with Miss Summerson, for which I 
have to thank you very much, sir ! " 

He broke off thus, in answer to Richard, who addressed him as 
he came into the room. By this time, I too well understood Mr. 
Vholes's scrupulous way of saving himself and his respectability, 
not to feel that our worst fears did but keep pace with his client's 
progress. 

We sat down to dinner, and I had an opportunity of observing 
Richard, anxiously. I was not disturbed by Mr. Vholes (who took 
off his gloves to dine), though he sat opposite to me at the small 
table ; for I doubt if, looking up at all, he once removed his eyes 
from his host's face. I found Richard thin and languid, slovenly 
in his dress, abstracted in his manner, forcing his spirits now and 
then, and at other intervals relapsing into a dull thoughtfulness. 
About his large bright eyes that used to be so merry, there was a 
wanness and a restlessness that changed them altogether. I can- 
not use the expression that he looked old. There is a ruin of youth 
which is not like age ; and into such a ruin, Richard's youth and 
youthful beauty had all fallen away. 

He ate little, and seemed indifferent what it was ; showed him- 
self to be much more impatient than he used to be ; and was 
quick, even with Ada. I thought, at first, that his old light- 
hearted manner was all gone ; but it shone out of him sometimes, 
as I had occasionally known little momentary glimpses of my own 



BLEAK HOUSE. 763 

old face to look out upon me from the glass. His laugh had not 
quite left him either ; but it was like the echo of a joyful sound, 
and that is always sorrowful. 

Yet he was as glad as ever, in liis old affectionate way, to have- 
me there ; and we talked of the old times pleasantly. These did 
not appear to be interesting to Mr. Vholes, though he occasionally 
made a gasp which I believe was his smile. He rose shortly after 
dinner, and said that with the permission of the ladies he would 
retire to his office. 

"Always devoted to business, Vholes ! " cried Richard. 

"Yes, Mr. C," he returned, "the interests of clients are never 
to be neglected, sir. They are paramount in the thoughts of a 
professional man like myself, who wishes to preserve a good name 
among his fellow practitioners and society at large. My denying 
myself the pleasure of the present agreeable conversation, may not 
be wholly irrespective of your own interests, Mr. 0." 

Richard expressed himself quite sure of that, and lighted Mr. 
Vholes out. On his return he told us, more than once, that Vholes 
was a good fellow, a safe fellow, a man who did what he pretended 
to do, a very good fellow, indeed ! He was so defiant about it, 
that it struck me he had begun to doubt Mr. Vholes. 

Then he threw himself on the sofa, tired out ; and Ada and I 
put things to rights, for they had no other servant than the woman 
who attended to the chambers. My dear girl had a cottage piano 
there, and quietly sat down to sing some of Richard's favourites ; 
the lamp being first removed into the next room, as he complained 
of its hurting his eyes. 

I sat between them, at my dear girl's side, and felt very melan- 
choly listening to her sweet voice. I think Richard did too ; I 
think he darkened the room for that reason. She had been sing- 
ing some time, rising between-whiles to bend over him and speak 
to him ; when Mr. Woodcourt came in. Then he sat down by 
Richard ; and half playfully, half earnestly, quite naturally and 
easily, found out how he felt, and where he had been all day. 
Presently he proposed to accompany him in a short walk on one 
of the bridges, as it was a moonlight airy night ; and Richard 
readily consenting, they went out together. 

They left my dear girl still sitting at the piano, and me still 
sitting beside her. When they were gone out, I drew my arm 
round her waist. She put her left hand in mine (I was sitting on 
that side), but kept her right upon the keys — going over and over 
them, without striking any note. 

" Esther, my dearest," she said, breaking silence, " Richard is 
never so well, and I am never so easy about him, as when he is 
with Allan Woodcourt. We have to thank you for that." 



764 BLEAK HOUSE. 

I pointed out to my darling how this could scarcely be, because 
Mr. Woodcourt had come to her cousin John's house, ^nd had 
known us all there ; and because he had always liked Richard, and 
Richard had always liked him, and — and so forth. 

" All true," said Ada ; " but that he is such a devoted friend to 
us, we owe to you." 

I thought it best to let my dear girl have her way, and to say 
no more about it. So I said as much. I said it lightly, because 
I felt her trembling. 

" Esther, my dearest, I want to be a good wife, a very, very good 
wife indeed. You shall teach me." 

I teach ! I said no more ; for I noticed the hand that was flutter- 
ing over the keys, and I knew that it was not I who ought to 
speak ; that it was she who had something to say to me. 

"When I married Richard, I was not insensible to what was 
before him. I had been perfectly happy for a long time with you, 
and I had never known any trouble or anxiety, so loved and cared 
for ; but I understood the danger he was in, dear Esther." 

" I know, I know, my darling." 

" When we were married, I had some little hope that I might be 
able to convince him of his mistake ; that he might come to regard 
it in a new way as my husband, and not pursue it all the more 
desperately for my sake — as he does. But if I had not had that 
hope, I would have married him just the same, Esther. Just the 
same ! " 

In the momentary firmness of the hand that was never still — a 
firmness inspired by the utterance of these last words, and dying 
away with them — I saw the confirmation of her earnest tones. 

"You are not to think, my dearest Esther, that I fail to see what 
you see, and fear what you fear. No one can understand him bet- 
ter than I do. The greatest wisdom that ever lived in the world 
could scarcely know Richard better than my love does." 

She spoke so modestly and softly, and her trembling hand ex- 
pressed such agitation, as it moved to and fro upon the silent notes ! 
My dear, dear girl ! 

" I see him at his worst, every day. I watch him in his sleep. 
I know every change of his face. But when I married Richard I 
was quite determined, Esther, if Heaven would help me, never to 
show him that I grieved for what he did, and so to make him more 
unhappy. I want him, when he comes home, to find no trouble 
in my face. I want him, when he looks at me, to see what he loved 
in me. I married him to do this, and this supports me." 

I felt her trembling more. I waited for what was yet to come, 
and I now thought I began to know what it was. 



BLEAK HOUSE. 766 

" And something else supports me, Esther." 

She stopped a minute. Stopped speaking only ; her hand was 
still in motion. 

" I look forward a little while, and I don't know what great aid 
may come to me. When Richard turns his eyes upon me then, there 
may be something lying on my breast more eloquent than I have 
been, with greater power than mine to show him his true course, 
and win him back." 

Her hand stopped now. She clasped me in her arms, and I 
clasped her in mine. 

" If that little creature should fail too, Esther, I still look for- 
ward. I look forward a long while, through years and years, and 
tliink that then, when I am growing old, or when I am dead per- 
haps, a beautiful woman, his daughter, happily married, may be 
proud of him and a blessing to him. Or that a generous brave 
man, as handsome as he used to be, as hopeful, a^d far more happy, 
may walk in the sunshine with him, honouring his grey head, and 
saying to himself, ' I thank God this is my father ! ruined by a 
fatal inheritance, and restored through me ! ' " 

0, my sweet girl, what a heart was that which beat so fast 
against me ! 

" These hopes uphold me, my dear Esther, and I know they will. 
Though sometimes even they depart from me, before a dread that 
arises when I look at Richard." 

I tried to cheer my darling, and asked her what it was ? Sob- 
bing and weeping, she replied : 

" That he may not live to see his child." 



CHAPTER LXI. 

A DISCOVERY. 

The days when I frequented that miserable corner which my dear 
girl brightened, can never fade in my remembrance. I never see 
it, and I never wish to see it, now ; I have been there only once 
since ; but in my memory there is a mournful glory shining on the 
place, which will shine for ever. 

Not a day passed, without my going there, of course. At first I 
found Mr. Skimpole there, on two or three occasions, idly playing 
the piano, and talking in his usual vivacious strain. Now, besides 
my very much mistrusting the probability of his being there without 
making Richard poorer, I felt as if there were something in his care- 
less gaiety, too inconsistent with what I knew of the depths of Ada's 



766 BLEAK HOUSE. 

life. I clearly perceived, too, that Ada shared my feelings. 1 1 
therefore resolved, after much thinking of it, to make a private visit! 
to Mr. Skimpole, and try delicately to explain myself. ^''^■''^ dear] 
girl was the great consideration that made me bold. 

I set off one morning, accompanied by Charley, for Somer? i'own.^ 
As I approached the house, I was strongly inclined to turn back, 
for I felt what a desperate attempt it was to makf an impression 
on Mr. Skimpole, and how extremely likely it was that he would 
signally defeat me. However, I thought that being there, I would 
go through with it. I knocked with a trembling hand at Mr. 
Skimpole's door — literally wdth a hand, for the knocker was gone 
— and after a long parley gained admission from an Irishwoman, 
who was in the area when I knocked, breaking up the lid of a 
water-butt with a poker, to light the fire with. 

Mr. Skimpole, lying on the sofa in his room, playing the flute a 
little, was enchanted to see me. Now, who should receive me, he 
asked 1 Who would I prefer for mistress of the ceremonies 1 Would 
I have his Comedy daughter, his Beauty daughter, or his Sentiment 
daughter 1 Or would I have all the daughters at once, in a perfect 
nosegay ? 

I replied, half defeated already, that I wished to speak to himself 
only, if he would give me leave. 

" My dear Miss Summerson, most joyfully ! Of course," he said, 
bringing his chair near mine, and breaking into his fascinating smile, 
" of course it's not business. Then it's pleasure ! " 

I said it certainly was not business that I came upon, but it was 
not quite a pleasant matter. 

" Then, my dear Miss Summerson," said he, with the frankest 
gaiety, "don't allude to it. Why should you allude to anything 
that is not a pleasant matter 1 I never do. And you are a much 
pleasanter creature, in every point of view, than I. You are per- 
fectly pleasant ; I am imperfectly pleasant ; then, if I never allude 
to an unpleasant matter, how much less should you ! So that's 
disposed of, and we will talk of something else." 

Although I was embarrassed, I took courage to intimate that I 
still wished to pursue the subject. 

" I should think it a mistake," said Mr. Skimpole, with his airy 
laugh, "if I thought Miss Summerson capable of making one. 
But I don't ! " 

"Mr. Skimpole," said I, raising my eyes to his, "I have so 
often heard you say that you are unacquainted with the common 
affairs of life " 

" Meaning our three banking-house friends, L, S, and who's the 
junior partner 1 DV said Mr. Skimpole, brightly. " Not an 
idea of them ! " 



BLEAK HOUSE. 767 

" — That, perhaps," I went on, "you will excuse my boldness 
on that account. I think you ought most seriously to know that 
Richard is poorer than he was." 

"Dear me ! " said Mr. Skimpole. " So am I, they tell me." 

" A)id in very embarrassed circumstances." 

"Parallel case exactly!" said Mr. Skimpole, with a delighted 
countenance. 

" This at p esent naturally causes Ada much secret anxiety ; 
and as I think she is less anxious when no claims are made upon 
her by visitors, and as Richard has one uneasiness always heavy 
on his mind, it has occurred to me to, take the liberty of saying 
that — if you would — not " 

I was coming to the point with great difficulty, when he took 
me by both hands, and, with a radiant face and in the liveliest 
way, anticipated it. 

" Not go there 1 Certainly not, my dear Miss Summerson, most 
assuredly not. Why should I go there ? When I go anywhere, I 
go for pleasure. I don't go anywhere for pain, because I was made 
for pleasure. Pain comes to me when it wants me. Now I have 
had veiy little pleasure at our dear Richard's, lately, and your 
practical sagacity demonstrates why. Our young friends, losing 
the youthful poetry which was once so captivating in them, begin 
to think, 'this is a man who wants pounds.' So I am ; I always 
want pounds ; not for myself, but because tradespeople always want 
them of me. Next, our young friends begin to think, becoming 
mercenary, ' this is the man who had pounds, — who borrowed 
them ' ; which I did. I always borrow pounds. So our young 
friends, reduced to prose (which is much to be regretted), degenerate 
in their power of imparting pleasure to me. Why should I go to 
see them therefore 1 Absurd ! " 

Through the beaming smile with which he regarded me, as 
he reasoned thus, there now broke forth a look of disinterested 
benevolence quite astonishing. 

" Besides," he said, pursuing his argument, in his tone of light- 
hearted conviction, "if I don't go anywhere for pain — which 
would be a perversion of the intention of my being, and a mon- 
strous thing to do — • why should I go anywhere to be the cause of 
pain? If I went to see our young friends in their present ill- 
regulated state of mind, I should give them pain. The associa- 
tions with me would be disagreeable. They might say, ' this is 
the man who had pounds, and who can't pay pounds,' which I can't, 
of course ; nothing could be more out of the question ! Then, 
kindness requires that I shouldn't go near them — ^and I won't." 

He finished by genially kissing my hand, and thanking me. 



768 BLEAK HOUSE. 



baveil' 



Nothing but Miss Summerson's fine tact, he said, would 
found this out for him. 

I was much disconcerted ; but I reflected that if the main point 
were gained, it mattered little how strangely he perverted every- 
thing leading to it. I had determined to mention something else, 
however, and I thought I was not to be put off in that. 

"Mr. Skimpole," said I, "I must take the liberty of saying, 
before I conclude my visit, that I was much surprised to learn, on 
the best authority, some little time ago, that you knew with whom 
that poor boy left Bleak House, and that you accepted a present 
on that occasion. I have not mentioned it to my Guardian, for I 
fear it would hurt him unnecessarily ; but I may say to you that 
I was much surprised." 

" No ? Really surprised, my dear Miss Summerson ? " he 
returned, inquiringly, raising his pleasant eyebrows. 

"Greatly surprised." 

He thought about it for a little while, with a highly agreeable 
and whimsical expression of face ; then quite gave it up, and said, 
in his most engaging manner : 

" You know what a child I am. Why surprised 1 " 

I was reluctant to enter minutely into that question ; but as he 
begged I would, for he was really curious to know, I gave him to 
understand, in the gentlest words I could use, that his conduct 
seemed to involve a disregard of several moral obligations. He 
was much amused and interested when he heard this, and said, 
" No, really 1 " with ingenuous simplicity. 

" You know I don't pretend to be responsible. I never could 
do it. Responsibility is a thing that has always been above me — 
or below me," said Mr. Skimpole, "I don't even know which; 
but, as I understand the way in which my dear Miss Summerson 
(always remarkable for her practical good sense and clearness) puts 
this case, I should imagine it was chiefly a question of money, do 
you know 1 " 

I incautiously gave a qualified assent to this. 

"Ah! Then you see," said Mr. Skimpole, shaking his head, 
"I am hopeless of understanding it." 

I suggested, as I rose to go, that it was not right to betray my 
Guardian's confidence for a bribe. 

"My dear Miss Summerson," he returned, with a candid hilarity 
that was all his own, "I can't be bribed." 

" Not by Mr. Bucket ? " said I. 

" No," said he. " Not by anybody. I don't attach any value 
to money. I don't care about it, I don't know about it, I don't 
want it, I don't keep it — it goes away from me directly. How 
can / be bribed 1 " 



BLEAK HOUSE. 760 

I showed that I was of a different opinion, though I had not the 
capacity for arguing the question. 

"On the contrary," said Mr. Skimpole, "I am exactly the man 
to be placed in a superior position, in such a case as that. I am 
above the rest of mankind, in such a case as that. I can act with 
philosophy, in such a case as that. I am not warped by preju- 
dices, as an Italian baby is by bandages. I am as free as the air. 
I feel myself as far above suspicion as Caesar's wife." 

Anything to equal the lightness of his manner, and the playful 
impartiality with which he seemed to convince himself, as he 
tossed the matter about like a ball of feathers, was surely never 
seen in anybody else ! 

" Observe the case, my dear Miss Summerson. Here is a boy 
received into the house and put to bed, in a state that I strongly 
object to. The boy being in bed, a man arrives — like the house 
that Jack built. Here is the man who demands the boy who is 
received into the house and put to bed in a state that I strongly 
object to. Here is a bank-note produced by the man who demands 
the boy who is received into the house and put to bed in a state 
that I strongly object to. Here is the Skimpole who accepts the 
bank-note produced by the man who demands the boy who is 
received into the house and put to bed in a state that I strongly 
object to. Those are the facts. Very well. Should the Skimpole 
have refused the note ? Why should the Skimpole have refused 
the note % Skimpole protests to Bucket ; ' what's this for % I don't 
understand it, it is of no use to me, take it away.' Bucket still 
entreats Skimpole to accept it. Are there reasons why Skimpole, 
not being warped by prejudices, should accept it % Yes. Skimpole 
perceives them. What are they? Skimpole reasons with him- 
self, this is a tamed lynx, an active police ofl&cer, an intelligent 
man, a person of a peculiarly directed energy and great subtlety 
both of conception and execution, who discovers our friends and 
enemies for us when they run away, recovers our property for 
us when we are robbed, avenges us comfortably when we are 
murdered. This active police officer and intelligent man has 
acquired, in the exercise of his art, a strong faith in money; he 
finds it very useful to him, and he makes it very useful to society. 
Shall I shake that faith in Bucket, because I want it myself; shall 
I deliberately blunt one of Bucket's weapons ; shall I possibly 
paralyse Bucket, in his next detective operation ? And again. If 
it is blamable in Skimpole to take the note, it is blamable in 
Bucket to offer the note — ■ much more blamable in Bucket, 
because he is the knowing man. Now, Skimpole wishes to think 
well of Bucket ; Skimpole deems it essential, in its little place, to 

3d 



770 BLEAK HOUSE. 

the general cohesion of things, that he should think well of Bucket 
The State expressly asks him to trust to Bucket. And he doesj 
And that's all he does ! " 

I had nothing to offer in reply to this exposition, and therefore 
took my leave. Mr. Skimpole, however, who was in excellent 
spirits, would not hear of my returning home attended only by' 
" Little Coavinses," and accompanied me himself. He entertained 
me, on the way, with a variety of delightful conversation ; and 
assured me, at parting, that he should never forget the fine tact 
with which I had found that out for him about our young friends. 

As it so happened that I never saw Mr. Skimpole again, I may 
at once finish what I know of his history. A coolness arose 
between him and my Guardian, based chiefly on the foregoing 
grounds, and on his having heartlessly disregarded my Guardian's 
entreaties (as we afterwards learned from Ada) in reference to 
Richard. His being heavily in my Guardian's debt, had nothing to 
do with their separation. He died some five years afterwards, and 
left a diary behind him, with letters and other materials towards 
his Life ; which was published, and which showed him to have 
been the victim of a combination on the part of mankind against 
an amiable child. It was considered very pleasant reading, but I 
never read more of it myself than the sentence on which I chanced 
to light on opening the book. It was this. " Jarndyce, in com- 
mon with most other men I have known, is the Incarnation of 
Selfishness." 

And now I come to a part of my story, touching myself very 
nearly indeed, and for which I was quite unprepared when the cir- 
cumstance occurred. Whatever little lingerings may have now and 
then revived in my mind, associated with my poor old face, had 
only revived as belonging to a part of my life that was gone — 
gone like my infancy or my childhood. I have suppressed none of 
my many weaknesses on that subject, but have written them as 
faithfully as my memory has recalled them. And I hope to do, 
and mean to do, the same down to the last words of these pages : 
which I see now, not so very very far before me. 

The months were gliding away ; and my dear girl, sustained by 
the hopes she had confided to me, was the same beautiful star in 
the miserable corner. Richard, more wan and haggard, haunted the 
Court day after day ; listlessly sat there the whole day long, when 
he knew there was no remote chance of the suit being mentioned ; 
and became one of the stock sights of the place. I wonder whether 
any of the gentlemen remembered him as he was when he first 
went there. 

So completely was he absorbed in his fixed idea, thq-t he used to 



BLEAK HOUSE. 771 

avow in his cheerful moments, that he should never have breathed 
the fresh air now "but for Woodcourt." It was only Mr. Wood- 
court who could occasionally divert his attention, for a few hours at 
a time ; and rouse him, even when he sunk into a lethargy of 
mind and body that alarmed us greatly, and the returns of which 
became more frequent as the months went on. My dear girl was 
right in saying that he only pursued his errors the more desperately 
for her sake. I have no doubt that his desire to retrieve what he 
had lost, was rendered the more intense by his grief for his young 
wife, and became like the madness of a gamester. 

I was there, as I have mentioned, at all hours. When I was 
there at night, I generally went home with Charley in a coach ; 
sometimes my Guardian would meet me in the neighbourhood, and 
we would walk home together. One evening, he had arranged to 
meet me at eight o'clock. I could not leave, as I usually did, 
quite punctually to the time, for I was working for my dear girl, 
and had a few stitches more to do, to finish what I was about ; but 
it was within a few minutes of the hour, when I bundled up my 
little work-basket, gave my darling my last kiss for the night, and 
hurried down-stairs. Mr. Woodcourt went with me, as it was dusk. 

When we came to the usual place of meeting — it was close by, 
and Mr. Woodcourt had often accompanied me before — my Guar- 
dian was not there. We waited half an hour, walking up and 
down ; but there were no signs of him. We agreed that he was 
either prevented from coming, or that he had come, and gone 
away ; and Mr. Woodcourt proposed to walk home with me. 

It was the first walk we had ever taken together, except that 
very short one to the usual place of meeting. We spoke of 
Richard and Ada the whole way. I did not thank him, in words, 
for what he had done — my appreciation of it had risen above all 
words then — but I hoped he might not be without some under- 
standing of what I felt so strongly. 

Arriving at home and going up-stairs, we found that my Guar- 
dian was out, and that Mrs. Woodcourt was out too. We were in 
the very same room into which I had brought my blushing girl, 
when her youthful lover, now her so altered husband, was the 
choice of her young heart ; the very same room, from which my 
Guardian and I had watched them going away through the sunlight, 
in the fresh bloom of their hope and promise. 

We were standing by the opened window, looking down into 
the street, when Mr. Woodcourt spoke to me. I learned in a 
moment that he loved me. I learned in a moment that my 
scarred face was all unchanged to him. I learned in a moment 
that what I had thought was pity and compassion, was devoted, 



772 • BLEAK HOUSE. 

generous, faithful love. 0, too late to know it now, too late, too 
late. That was the first ungrateful thought I had. Too late. 

"When I returned," he told me, "when I came back, no richer 
than I went away, and found you newly risen from a sick bed, yet 
so inspired by sweet consideration for others, and so free from a 
selfish thought " 

"0, Mr. Woodcourt, forbear, forbear!" I entreated him. "I 
do not deserve your high praise. I had many selfish thoughts at 
that time, many ! " 

"Heaven knows, beloved of my life," said he, "that my praise 
is not a lover's praise, but the truth. You do not know what all 
around you see in Esther Summerson, how many hearts she touches 
and awakens, what sacred admiration and what love she wins." 

" 0, Mr. Woodcourt," cried I, " it is a great thing to win love, it 
is a great thing to win love ! I am proud of it, and honoured by 
it ; and the hearing of it causes me to shed these tears of mingled 
joy and sorrow — joy that I have won it, sorrow that I have not 
deserved it better; but I am not free to think of yours." 

I said it with a stronger heart ; for when he praised me thus, 
and when I heard his voice thrill with his belief that what he said 
was true, I aspired to be more worthy of it. It was not too late 
for that. Although I closed this unforeseen page in my life 
to-night, I could be worthier of it all through my life. And it 
was a comfort to me, and an impulse to me, and I felt a dignity 
rise up within me that was derived from him, when I thought so. 

He broke the silence. 

" I should poorly show the trust that I have in the dear one 
who will evermore be as dear to me as now," and the deep earnest- 
ness with which he said it, at once strengthened me and made me 
weep, " if, after her assurance that she is not free to think of my 
love, I urged it. Dear Esther, let me only tell you that the fond 
idea of you which I took abroad, was exalted to the Heavens when 
I came home. I have always hoped, in the first hour when I 
seemed to stand in any ray of good fortune, to tell you this. I 
have always feared that I should tell it you in vain. My hopes 
and fears are both fulfilled to-night. I distress you. I have said 
enough." 

Something seemed to pass into my place that was like the 
Angel he thought me, and I felt so sorrowful for the loss he had 
sustained ! I wished to help him in his trouble, as I had wished 
to do when he showed that first commiseration for me. 

"Dear Mr. Woodcourt," said I, "before we part to-night, some- 
thing is left for me to say. I never could say it as I wish — I 
never shall — but " 



BLEAK HOUSE. 773 

I had to think again of being more deserving of his love, and 
his affliction, before I could go on. 

" — I am deeply sensible of your generosity, and I shall treas- 
ure its remembrance to my dying hour. I know full well how 
changed I am, I know you are not unacquainted with my history, 
and I know what a noble love that is which is so faithful. What 
you have said to me, could have affected me so much from no 
other lips ; for there are none that could give it such a value to 
me. It shall not be lost. It shall make me better." 

He covered his eyes with his hand, and turned away his head. 
How could I ever be worthy of those tears ? 

" If, in the unchanged intercourse we shall have together — in 
tending Richard and Ada ; and I hope in many happier scenes of 
life — you ever find anything in me which you can honestly think 
is better than it used to be, believe that it will have sprung up 
from to-night, and that I shall owe it to you. And never believe, 
dear dear Mr. Woodcourt, never believe,- that I forget this night ; 
or that while my heart beats, it can be insensible to the pride and 
joy of having been beloved by you." 

He took my hand, and kissed it. He was like himself again, 
and I felt still more encouraged. 

"I am induced, by what you said just now," said I, "to hope 
that you have succeeded in your endeavour 1 " 

"I have," he answered. "With such help from Mr. Jarndyce, 
as you who know him so well can imagine him to have rendered 
me, I have succeeded." 

" Heaven bless him for it," said I, giving him my hand ; "and 
Heaven bless you in all you do ! " 

" I shall do it better for the wish," he answered ; " it will make 
me enter on these new duties, as on another sacred trust from 
you." 

"Ah! Richard!" I exclaimed involuntarily, "what will he do 
when you are gone ! " 

" I am not required to go yet ; I would not desert him, dear 
Miss Summerson, even if I were." 

One other thing I felt it needful to touch upon, before he left 
me. I knew that I should not be worthier of the love I could not 
take, if I reserved it. 

" Mr. Woodcourt," said I, "you will be glad to know from my 
lips before I say Good night, that in the future, which is clear and 
bright before me, I am most happy, most fortunate, having noth- 
ing to regret or to desire." 

It was indeed a glad hearing to him, he replied. 

" From my childhood I have been," said I, " the object of the 



774 BLEAK HOUSE. 

untiring goodness of the best of human beings ; to whom I am so 
bound by every tie of attachment, gratitude, and love, that nothing 
I could do in the compass of a life could express the feelings of a 
single day." 

''I share those feelings," he returned; "you speak of Mr. Jarn- 
dyce." 

"You know his virtues well," said I, "but few can know the 
greatness of his character as I know it. All its highest and best 
qualities have been revealed to me in nothing more brightly, than 
in the shaping out of that future in which I am so happy. And 
if your highest homage and respect had not been his already, — 
which I know they are, — they would have been his, I think, on 
this assurance, and in the feeling it would have awakened in you 
towards him for my sake." 

He fervently replied, that indeed, indeed they would have been. 
I gave him my hand again. 

"Good night," I said; "good bye." 

" The first, until we meet to-morrow ; tlie second, as a farewell 
to this theme between us for ever 1 " 

"Yes." 

" Good night ; good bye ! " 

He left me, and I stood at the dark window watching the street. 
His love, in all its constancy and generosity, had come so suddenly 
upon me, that he had not left me a minute when my fortitude gave 
way again, and the street was blotted out by my rushing tears. 

But they were not tears of regret and sorrow. No. He had 
called me the beloved of his life, and had said I would be evermore 
as dear to him as I was then ; and I felt as if my heart would not 
hold the triumph of having heard those words. My first wild 
thought had died away. It was not too late to hear them, for it 
was not too late to be animated by them to be good, true, grateful, 
and contented. How easy my path ; how much easier than his ! 



CHAPTER LXII. 

ANOTHER DISCOVERY. 

I HAD not the courage to see any one that night. I had not 
even the courage to see myself, for I was afraid that my tears might 
a little reproach me. I went up to my room in the dark, and prayed 
in the dark, and lay down in the dark to sleep. I had no need of 
any light to read my Guardian's letter by, for I knew it by heart. 
I took it from the place where I kept it, and repeated its contents 



BLEAK HOUSE. 775 

by its own clear light of integrity and love, and went to sleep with 
it on my pillow. 

I was up veiy early in the morning, and called Charley to come 
for a walk. We bought flowers for the breakfast-table, and came 
back and arranged them, and were as busy as possible. We were 
so early, that I had good time still for Charley's lesson, before break- 
fast ; Charley (who was not in the least improved in the old defec- 
tive article of grammar) came through it with great applause ; and 
we were altogether very notable. When my Guardian appeared, he 
said, " Why, little woman, you look fresher than your flowers ! " 
And Mrs. Woodcourt repeated and translated a passage from the 
Mewlinwillinwodd, expressive of my being like a mountain with 
the sun upon it. 

This was all so pleasant, that I hope it made me still more like 
the mountain than I had been before. After breakfast, I waited 
my opportunity, and peeped about a little, until I saw my Guardian 
in his own room — the room of last night — by himself. Then I 
made an excuse to go in with my housekeeping keys, shutting the 
door after me. 

" Well, Dame Burden ? " said my Guardian ; the post had brought 
him several letters, and he was writing. " You want money ! " 

"No, indeed, I have plenty in hand." 

" There never was such a Dame Durden," said my Guardian, " for 
making money last." 

He had laid down his pen, and leaned back in his chair looking 
at me. I have often spoken of his bright face, but I thought I had 
never seen it look so bright and good. There was a high happiness 
upon it, which made me think, " he has been doing some great 
kindness this morning." 

" There never was," said my Guardian, musing as he smiled upon 
me, "such a Dame Durden for making money last." 

He had never yet altered his old manner. I loved it, and him, 
so much, that when I now went up to him and took my usual chair, 
which was always put at his side — for sometimes I read to him, 
and sometimes I talked to him, and sometimes I silently worked 
by him — I hardly liked to disturb it by laying my hand on his 
breast. But I found I did not disturb it at all. 

"Dear Guardian," said I, "I want to speak to you. Have I 
been remiss in anything ? " 

" Remiss in anything, my dear ! " 

" Have I not been what I have meant to be, since — I brought 
the answer to your letter. Guardian 1 " 

" You have been everything I could desire, my love." 

" I am very glad indeed to hear that," I returned. "You know, 



776 BLEAK HOUSE. 

you said to me, was this the mistress of Bleak House? And I 
said, yes." 

"Yes," said my Guardian, nodding his head. He had put hia 
arm about me, as if there were something to protect me from ; and 
looked in my face, smiling. 

"Since then," said I, "we have never spoken on the subjec^ 
except once." 

" And then I said, Bleak House was thinning fast ; and so it 
was, my dear." 

"And / said," I timidly reminded him, "but its mistress re- 
mained." 

He still held me, in the same protecting manner, and with the 
same bright goodness in his face. 

" Dear Guardian," said I, " I know how you have felt all that has 
happened, and how considerate you have been. As so much time 
has passed, and as you spoke only this morning of my being so 
well again, perhaps you expect me to renew the subject. Perhaps 
I ought to do so. I will be the mistress of Bleak House when you 
please." 

"See," he returned gaily, "what a sympathy there must be 
between us ! I have had nothing else, poor Rick excepted — it's 
a large exception — in my mind. When you came in, I was fuU 
of it. When shall we give Bleak House its mistress, little 
woman ? " 

" When you please." 

" Next month 1 " 

" Next month, dear Guardian." 

" The day on which I take the happiest and best step of my 
life — the day on which I shall be a man more exulting and more 
enviable than any other man in the world — the day on which I 
give Bleak House its little mistress — shall be next month, then," 
said my Guardian. 

I put my arms round his neck and kissed him, just as I had 
done on the day when I brought my answer. 

A servant came to the door to announce Mr. Bucket, which was 
quite unnecessary, for Mr. Bucket was already looking in over the 
servant's shoulder. "Mr. Jarndyce and Miss Summerson," said 
he rather out of breath, " with all apologies for intruding, will you 
allow me to order up a person that's on the stairs, and that objects 
to being left there in case of becoming the subject of observations 
in his absence? Thank you. Be so good as chair that there 
Member in this direction, will you?" said Mr. Bucket, beckoning 
over the banisters. 

This singular request produced an old man in a black skull-cap, 



BLEAK HOUSE. 777 

unable to walk, who was carried up by a couple of bearers, and 
deposited in the room near the door. Mr. Bucket immediately 
got rid of the bearers, mysteriously shut the door, and bolted it. 

" Now you see, Mr. Jarndyce," he then began, putting down his 
liat, and opening his subject with a flourish of his well-remembered 
hnger, "you know me, and Miss Summerson knows me. This 
gentleman likewise knows me, and his name is Smallweed. The 
discounting line is his line principally, and he's what you may call 
a dealer in bills. That's about what you are, you know, ain't 
you ? " said Mr. Bucket, stooping a little to address the gentleman 
in question, who was exceedingly suspicious of him. 

He seemed about to dispute this designation of himself, when he 
was seized with a violent fit of coughing. 

" Now, Moral, you know ! " said Mr. Bucket, improving the 
accident. "Don't you contradict when there ain't no occasion, 
and you won't be took in that way. Now, Mr. Jarndyce, I ad- 
dress myself to you. I've been negotiating with this gentleman 
on behalf of Sir Leicester Dedlock, Baronet; and one way and 
another I've been in and out and about his premises a deal. His 
premises are the premises formerly occupied by Krook, Marine 
Store Dealer — a relation of this gentleman's, that you saw in his 
life-time, if I don't mistake % " 

My Guardian replied " Yes." 

"Well! You are to understand," said Mr. Bucket, "that this 
gentleman he come into Krook's property, and a good deal of 
Magpie property there was. Vast lots of waste paper among the 
rest. Lord bless you, of no use to nobody ! " 

The cunning of Mr. Bucket's eye, and the masterly manner in 
which he contrived, without a look or a word against which his 
watchful auditor could protest, to let us know that he stated the 
case according to previous agreement, and could say much more of 
Mr. Smallweed if he thought it advisable, deprived us of any merit 
in quite understanding him. His difiiculty was increased by Mr. 
Smallweed's being deaf as well as suspicious, and watching his 
face with the closest attention. 

"Among them odd heaps of old papers, this gentleman, when 
he comes into the property, naturally begins to rummage, don't 
you see % " said Mr. Bucket. 

" To which % Say that again," cried Mr. Smallweed, in a shrill, 
sharp voice. 

" To rummage," repeated Mr. Bucket. " Being a prudent man, 
and accustomed to take care of your own affairs, you begin to rum- 
mage among the papers as you have come into ; don't you % " 

" Of course I do," cried Mr. Smallweed. 



778 BLEAK HOUSE. 

"Of course you do," said Mr. Bucket, conversationally, "and 
much to blame you would be if you didn't. And so you chance to 
find, you know," Mr. Bucket went on, stooping over him with an 
air of cheerful raillery which Mr. Smallweed by no means recipro- 
cated, " and so you chance to find, you know, a paper, with the 
signature of Jarndyce to it. Don't you ? " 

Mr. Smallweed glanced with a troubled eye at us, and grudg- 
ingly nodded assent. 

" And coming to look at that paper, at your fuU leisure and con- 
venience — all in good time, for you're not curious to read it, and 
why should you be ! — what do you find it to be but a Will, you 
see. That's the drollery of it," said Mr. Bucket, with the same 
Uvely air of recalling a joke for the enjoyment of Mr. Smallweed, 
who still had the same crestfallen appearance of not enjoying it 
at all ; " what do you find it to be but a Will ? " 

"I don't know that it's good as a will, or as anything else," 
snarled Mr. Smallweed. 

Mr. Bucket eyed the old man for a moment — he had slipped 
and shrunk down in his chair into a mere bundle — as if he were 
much disposed to pounce upon him ; nevertheless, he continued to 
bend over him with the same agreeable air, keeping the corner of 
one of his eyes upon us. 

"Notwithstanding which," said Mr. Bucket, "you get a little 
doubtful and uncomfortable in your mind about it, having a very 
tender mind of your own." 

" Eh ? What do you say I have got of my own ?" asked Mr. 
Smallweed, with his hand to his ear. 

" A very tender mind." 

" Ho ! Well, go on," said Mr. Smallweed. 

" And as you've heard a good deal mentioned regarding a cele- 
brated Chancery will case, of the same name ; and as you know 
what a card Krook was for buying all manner of old pieces of fur- 
niter, and books, and papers, and what not, and never liking to 
part with 'em, and always a going to teach himself to read; you 
begin to think — and you never was more correct in your born 
days — ' Ecod, if I don't look about me, I may get into trouble 
regarding this will.' " 

"Now, mind how you put it. Bucket," cried the old man 
anxiously, with his hand at his ear. " Speak up ; none of your 
brimstone tricks. Pick me up ; I want to hear better. Lord, 
I am shaken to bits ! " 

Mr. Bucket had certainly picked him up at a dart. However, 
as soon as he could be heard through Mr. Smallweed's coughing, 
and his vicious ejaculations of " my bones ! dear ! I've no 



BLEAK HOUSE. 779 

breath in my body ! I'm worse than the chattering, clattering, 
brimstone pig at home ! " Mr. Bucket proceeded, in the same 
convivial manner as before. 

"So, as I happen to be in the habit of coming about your 
premises, you take me into your confidence, don't you ? " 

I think it would be impossible to make an admission with more 
ill-will, and a worse grace, than Mr. Smallweed displayed when he 
admitted this ; rendering it perfectly evident that Mr. Bucket was 
the very last person he would have thought of taking into his 
confidence, if he could by any possibility have kept him out of it, 

" And I go into the business with you, — very pleasant we are 
over it ; and I confirm you in your well-founded fears, that you 
will-get-yourself-in-to-a-most precious line if you don't come out 
with that there will," said Mr. Bucket, emphatically ; " and accord- 
ingly you arrange with me that it shall be delivered up to this 
present Mr. Jarndyce, on no conditions. If it should prove to be 
valuable, you trusting yourself to him for your reward ; that's 
about where it is, ain't it 1 " 

" That's what was agreed," Mr. Smallweed assented, with the 
same bad grace. 

"In consequence of which," said Mr. Bucket, dismissing his 
agreeable manner all at once, and becoming strictly business-like, 
"you've got that will upon your person at the present time ; and 
the only thing that remains for you to do is, just to Out with it ! " 

Having given us one glance out of the watching corner of his 
eye, and having given his nose one triumphant rub with his fore- 
finger, Mr. Bucket stood with his eyes fastened on his confidential 
friend, and his hand stretched forth ready to take the paper and 
present it to my Guardian. It was not produced without much 
reluctance, and many declarations on the part of Mr. Smallweed 
that he was a poor industrious man, and that he left it to Mr. 
Jarndyce's honour not to let him lose by his honesty. Little by 
little, he very slowly took from a breast-pocket a stained discoloured 
paper, which was much singed upon the outside, and a little burnt 
at the edges, as if it had long ago been thrown upon a fire, and 
hastily snatched off again. Mr. Bucket lost no time in transfer- 
ring this paper, with the dexterity of a conjuror, from Mr. Small- 
weed to Mr. Jarndyce. As he gave it to my Guardian, he whispered 
behind his fingers : 

" Hadn't settled how to make their market of it. Quarrelled 
and hinted about it. I laid out twenty pound upon it. First, 
the avaricious grandchildren split upon him, on account of their 
objections to his living so unreasonably long, and then they split 
on one another. Lord ! there ain't one of the family that wouldn't 



780 BLEAK HOUSE. 

sell the other for a pound or two, except the old lady — and she's 
only out of it because she's too weak in her mind to drive a 
bargain." 

"Mr. Bucket," said my Guardian aloud, "whatever the worth 
of this paper may be to any one, my obligations are great to you ; 
and if it be of any worth, I hold myself bound to see Mr. Small- 
weed remunerated accordingly." 

" Not according to your merits you know," said Mr. Bucket, in 
friendly explanation to Mr. Smallweed. " Don't you be afraid of 
that. According to its value." 

" That is what I mean," said my Guardian. " You may observe, 
Mr. Bucket, fhat I abstain from examining this paper myself. 
The plain truth is, I have forsworn and abjured the whole business 
these many years, and my soul is sick of it. But Miss Summerson 
and I will immediately place the paper in the hands of my solicitor 
in the cause, and its existence shall be made known without delay 
to all other parties interested." 

"Mr. Jarndyce can't say fairer than that, you understand," 
observed Mr. Bucket, to his fellow visitor. "And it being now 
made clear to you that nobody's a going to be wronged — which 
must be a great relief to your mind - — we may proceed with the 
ceremony of chairing you home again." 

He unbolted the door, called in the bearers, wished us good 
morning, and with a look full of meaning, and a crook of his finger 
at parting, went his way. 

We went our way too, which was to Lincoln's Inn, as quickly 
as possible. Mr. Kenge was disengaged ; and we found him at his 
table in his dusty room, with the inexpressive-looking books, and 
the piles of papers. Chairs having been placed for us by Mr. 
Guppy, Mr. Kenge expressed the surprise and gratification he felt 
at the unusual sight of Mr. Jarndyce in his oflice. He turned 
over his double eye-glass as he spoke, and was more Conversation 
Kenge than ever. 

"I hope," said Mr. Kenge, "that the genial influence of Miss 
Summerson," he bowed to me, "may have induced Mr. Jarndyce," 
he bowed to him, " to forego some little of his animosity towards 
a Cause and towards a Court which are — shall I say, which take 
their place in the stately vista of the pillars of our profession % " 

"I am inclined to think," returned my Guardian, "that Miss 
Summerson has seen too much of the effiects of the Court and the 
Cause to exert any influence in their favour. Nevertheless, they 
are a part of the occasion of my being here. Mr. Kenge, before I 
lay this paper on your desk and have done with it, let me tell you 
how it has come into my hands." 



BLEAK HOUSE. 781 

He did so shortly and distinctly. "It could not, sir," said Mr. 
Kenge, " have been stated more plainly and to the purpose, if it 
had been a case at law." " Did you ever know English law, or 
equity either, plain and to the purpose 1 " said my Guardian. " 
fie ! " said Mr. Kenge. 

At first he had not seemed to attach much importance to the 
paper, but when he saw it he appeared more interested, and when 
le had opened and read a little of it through his eye-glass, he 
lecame amazed. "Mr. Jarndyce," he said, looking off it, "you 
lave perused this 1 " 

" Not I ! " returned my Guardian. 

"But, my dear sir," said Mr. Kenge, "it is a Will of later date 
than any in the suit. It appears to be all in the Testator's hand- 
vriting. It is duly executed and attested. And even if intended 
;o be cancelled, as might possibly be supposed to be denoted by 
these marks of fire, it is not cancelled. Here it is, a perfect 
instrument ! " 

" Well ! " said my Guardian. " What is that to me 1 " 

" Mr. Guppy ! " cried Mr. Kenge, raising his voice. — "I beg 
your pardon, Mr. Jarndyce." 

" Sir." 

"Mr. Vholes of Symond's Inn. My compliments. Jarndyce 
and Jarndyce. Glad to speak with him." 

Mr. Guppy disappeared. 

" You ask me what is this to you, Mr. Jarndyce. If you had 
perused this document, you would have seen that it reduces your 
interest considerably, though still leaving it a very handsome one, 
still leaving it a very handsome one," said Mr. Kenge, waving his 
hand persuasively and blandly. "You would further have seen, 
that the interests of Mr. Richard Carstone, and of Miss Ada Clare, 
now Mrs. Richard Carstone, are very materially advanced by it." 

"Kenge," said my Guardian, "if all the flourishing wealth that 
the suit brought into this vile court of Chancery could fall to my 
two young cousins, I should be well contented. But do you ask 
me to believe that any good is to come of Jarndyce and Jarndyce 1 " 

" really, Mr. Jarndyce ! Prejudice, prejudice. My dear sir, 
this is a very great country, a very great country. Its system of 
equity is a very great system, a very great system. Really, 
really ! " 

My Guardian said no more, and Mr. Vholes arrived. He was 
modestly impressed by Mr. Kenge's professional eminence. 

" How do you do, Mr. Vholes? Will you be so good as to take 
a chair here by me, and look over tliis paper 1 " 

Mr. Vholes did as he was asked, and seemed to read it every 



782 BLEAK HOUSE. 

word. He was not excited by it ; but he was not excited by any- 
thing. When he had well examined it, he retired with Mr. Kenge 
into a window, and shading his mouth with his black glove, spoke 
to him at some length. I was not surprised to observe Mr. Kenge 
inclined to dispute what he said before he had said much, for I 
knew that no two people ever did agree about anything in Jarndycej 
and Jarndyce. But he seemed to get the better of Mr. Kenge too,( 
in a conversation that sounded as if it were almost composed oi 
the words, "Eeceiver-General," "Accountant-General," "Report,'] 
" Estate," and " Costs." When they had finished, they came back 
to Mr. Kenge's table, and spoke aloud. 

" Well ! But this is a very remarkable document, Mr. Vholes ?'i 
said Mr. Kenge. j 

Mr. Vholes said, " Very much so." 

"And a very important document, Mr. Vholes?" said Mr. 
Kenge. 

Again Mr. Vholes said, "Very much so." 

" And as you say, Mr. Vholes, when the Cause is in the paper ' 
next Term, this document will be an unexpected and interesting 
feature in it," said Mr. Kenge, looking loftily at my Guardian. 

Mr. Vholes was gratified, as a smaller practitioner striving to 
keep respectable, to be confirmed in any opinion of his own by 
such an authority. 

"And when," asked my Guardian, rising after a pause, during 
which Mr. Kenge had rattled his money, and Mr. Vholes had 
picked his pimples, " when is next Term 1 " 

"Next Term, Mr. Jarndyce, will be next month," said Mr. ■ 
Kenge. " Of course we shall at once proceed to do what is neces-'^ 
sary with this document, and to collect the necessary evidence con- 
cerning it ; and of course you will receive our usual notification of 
the Cause being in the paper." 

" To which I shall pay, of course, my usual attention." 

"Still bent, my dear sir," said Mr. Kenge, showing us through 
the outer oSice to the door, " still bent, even with your enlarged 
mind, on echoing a popular prejudice 1 We are a prosperous com- 
munity, Mr. Jarndyce, a very prosperous community. We are 
a great country, Mr. Jarndyce, we are a very great country. This 
is a great system, Mr. Jarndyce, and would you wish a great 
country to have a little system 1 Now, really, really ! " 

He said this at the stair-head, gently moving his right hand as 
if it were a silver trowel, with which to spread the cement of his 
words on the structure of the system, and consolidate it for a 
thousand ages. 



BLEAK HOUSE. 783 

CHAPTER .LXIII. 

STEEL AND IRON. 

George's shooting-gallery is to let, and the stock is sold off, 
and George himself is at Chesney Wold, attending on Sir Leicester 
in his rides, and riding very near his bridle-rein, because of the 
uncertain hand with which he guides his horse. But not to-day is 
George so occupied. He is journeying to-day into the iron country 
farther north, to look about him. 

As he comes into the iron country farther north, such fresh 
green woods as those of Chesney Wold are left behind ; and coal- 
pits and ashes, high chimneys and red bricks, blighted verdure, 
scorching fires, and a heavy never-lightening cloud of smoke, be- 
come the features of the scenery. Among such objects rides the 
trooper, looking about him, and always looking for something he 
has come to find. 

At last, on the black canal bridge of a busy town, with a clang 
of iron in it, and more fires and more smoke than he has seen yet, 
the trooper, swart with the dust of the coal roads, checks his horse, 
and asks a workman does he know the name of Rouncewell there- 
abouts 1 

"Why, master," quoth the workman, "do I know my own 
name 1 " 

" 'Tis so well known here, is it, comrade ? " asks the trooper. 

" Rouncewells 1 Ah ! you're right." 

" And where might it be now 1 " asks the trooper, with a glance 
before him. 

" The bank, the factory, or the house 1 " the workman wants to 
know. 

" Hum ! Rouncewells is so great apparently," mutters the 
trooper, stroking his chin, " that I have as good as half a mind to 
go back again. Why, I don't know which I want. Should I find 
Mr. Rouncewell at the factory, do you think 1 " 

" 'Tain't easy to say where you'd find him — at this time of the 
day you might find either him or his son there, if he's in town ; 
but his contracts take him away." 

And which is the factory 1 Why, he sees those chimneys — the 
tallest ones ! Yes, he sees them. Well ! let him keep his eye on 
those chimneys, going on as straight as ever he can, and presently 
he'll see 'em down a turning on the left, shut in by a great brick 
wall which forms one side of the street. That's Rouncewells. 

The trooper thanks his informant, and rides slowly on, looking 
about him. He does not turn back, but puts up his horse (and is 



784. BLEAK HOUSE. 



le ofa 



much disposed to groom him too) at a public-house where some 
Rouncewell's hands are dining^ as the ostler tells him. Some of 
Rouncewell's hands have just knocked off for dinner time, and seem 
to be invading the whole town. They are very sinewy and strong, 
are Rouncewell's hands — a little sooty too. 

He comes to a gateway in the brick wall, looks in, and sees a great 
perplexity of iron lying about, in every stage, and in a vast variety 
of shapes ; in bars, in wedges, in sheets ; in tanks, in boilers, in 
axles, in wheels, in cogs, in cranks, in rails ; twisted and wrenched, 
into eccentric and perverse forms, as separate parts of machinery ; 
mountains of it broken-up, and rusty in its age ; distant furnaces of 
it glowing and bubbling in its youth ; bright fireworks of it shower- 
ing about, under the blows of the steam hammer; red-hot iron, 
white-hot iron, cold-black iron ; an iron taste, an iron smell, and a 
Babel of iron sounds. 

" This is a place to make a man's head ache, too ! " says the 
trooper, looking about him for a counting-house. "Who comes 
here? This is very like me before,! was set up. This ought to be 
my nephew, if likenesses run in families. Your servant, sir." 

"Yours, sir. Are you looking for any one?" v 

" Excuse me. Young Mr. Rouncewell, I believe 1 " 

"Yes." 

" I was looking for your father, sir. I wished to have a word 
with him." 

The young man, telling him he is fortunate in his choice of a time, 
for his father is there, leads the way to the office where he is to be 
found. "Very like me before I was set up — devilish like me ! " 
thinks the trooper, as he follows. They come to a building in the 
yard ; with an office on an upper floor. At sight of the gentleman 
in the office, Mr. George turns very red. 

" Wliat name shall I say to my father 1 " asks the young man. 

George, full of the idea of iron, in desperation answers "Steel," 
and is so presented. He is left alone with the gentleman in the 
office, who sits at a table with account-books before him, and some 
sheets of paper, blotted with hosts of figures and drawings of cun- 
ning shapes. It is a bare office, with bare windows, looking on the 
iron view below. Tumbled together on the table are some pieces 
of iron, purposely broken to be tested, at various periods of their 
service, in various capacities. There is iron-dust on everything; 
and the smoke is seen, through the windows, rolling heavily out of 
the tall chimneys, to mingle with the smoke from a vaporous Babylon 
of other chimneys, 

"I am at your service, Mr. Steel," says the gentleman, when his 
visitor has taken a rusty chair. 



BLEAK HOUSE. 785 

"Well, Mr. Rouncewell," George replies, leaning forward, with 
his left arm on his knee, and his hat in his hand ; and very chary 
of meeting his brother's eye; "I am not without my expectations, 
that in the present visit I may prove to be more free than welcome. 
I have served as a Dragoon in my day ; and a comrade of mine that 
I was once rather partial to, was, if I don't deceive myself, a brother 
of yours. I believe you had a brother who gave his family some 
trouble, and ran away, and never did any good but in keeping 
away 1 " 

"Are you quite sure," returns the ironmaster, in an altered voice, 
" that your name is Steel ? " 

The trooper falters, and looks at him. His brother starts up, 
calls him by his name, and grasps him by both hands. 

" You are too quick for me ! " cries the trooper, with the tears 
springing out of his eyes. "How do you do, my dear old fellow. 
I never could have thought you would have been half so glad to 
see me as all this. How do you do, my dear old fellow, how do 
you do ! " 

They shake hands, and embrace each other, over and over again ; 
the trooper still coupling his "How do you do, my dear old fel- 
low ! " with his protestation that he never thought Ms brother would 
have been half so glad to see him as all this ! 

" So far from it," he declares, at the end of a full account of what 
has preceded his arrival there, "I had very little idea of making 
myself known. I thought, if you took by any means forgivingly to 
my name, I might gradually get myself up to the point of writing 
a letter. But I should not have been surprised, brother, if you had 
considered it anything but welcome news to hear of me." 

" We will show you at home what kind of news we think it, 
George," returns his brother. "This is a great day at home, and 
you could not have arrived, you bronzed old soldier, on a better. I 
make an agreement with my son Watt to-day, that on this day 
twelvemonth he shall marry as pretty and as good a girl as you have 
seen in all your travels. She goes to Germany to-morrow, with one 
of your nieces, for a little polishing up in her education. We make 
a feast of the event, and you will be made the hero of it." 

Mr. George is so entirely overcome at first by this prospect, that 
he resists the proposed honour with great earnestness. Being over- 
borne, however, by his brother and his nephew — concerning whom 
he renews his protestations that he never could have thought they 
would have been half so glad to see him — he is taken home to an 
elegant house, in all the arrangements of which there is to be 
observed a pleasant mixture of the originally simple habits of the 
father and mother, with such as are suited to their altered station 

3e 



786 BLEAK HOUSE. 

and the higher fortunes of their children. Here, Mr. George is much 
dismayed by the graces and accomplishments of his nieces that are ; 
and by the beauty of Rosa, his niece that is to be ; and by the 
affectionate salutations of these young ladies, which he receives in a 
sort of dream. He is sorely taken aback, too, by the dutiful be- 
haviour of his nephew ; and has a woful consciousness upon him of 
being a scapegrace. However, there is great rejoicing, and a very 
hearty company, and infinite enjoyment ; and Mr. George comes 
bluff and martial through it all ; and his pledge to be present at 
the marriage and give away the bride, is received with universal 
favour. A whirling head has Mr. George that night, when he lies 
down in the state-bed of his brother's house, to think of all these 
things, and to see the images of his nieces (awful all the evening in 
their floating muslins), waltzing, after the German manner, over his 
counterpane. 

The brothers are closeted next morning in the ironmaster's 
room ; where the elder is proceeding, in his clear sensible way, to 
show how he thinks he may best dispose of George in his business, 
when George squeezes his hand and stops him. 

"Brother, I thank you a million times for your more than 
brotherly welcome, and a million times more to that for your more 
than brotherly intentions. But my plans are made. Before I say 
a word as to them, I wish to consult you upon one family point. 
How," says the trooper, folding his arms, and looking with indomi- 
table firmness at his brother, " how is my mother to be got to 
scratch me ? " 

" I am not sure that I understand you, George," replies the 
ironmaster. 

"I say, brother, how is my mother to be got to scratch me? 
She must be got to do it, somehow." 

"Scratch you out of her will, I think you mean?" 

" Of course I do. In short," says the trooper, folding his arms 
more resolutely yet, " I mean — to — scratch me ? " 

" My dear George," returns his brother, "is it so indispensable 
that you should undergo that process ? " 

" Quite ! Absolutely ! I couldn't be guilty of the meanness of 
coming back without it. I should never be safe not to be off 
again. I have not sneaked home to rob your children, if not your- 
self, brother, of your rights. I, who forfeited mine long ago ! If 
I am to remain, and hold up my head, I must be scratched. 
Come. You are a man of celebrated penetration and intelligence, 
and you can tell me how it's to be brought about." 

"I can tell you, George," replies the ironmaster, deliberately, 
" how it is not to be brought about, which I hope may answer the 



BLEAK HOUSE. 787 

purpose as well. Look at our mother, think of her, recall her 
emotion when she recovered you. Do you believe there is a con- 
sideration in the world that would induce her to take such a step 
against her favourite son ? Do you believe there is any chance of 
her consent, to balance against the outrage it would be to her 
(loving dear old lady ! ) to propose it ? If you do, you are wrong. 
No, George ! You must make up your mind to remain w/iscratched. 
I think," there is an amused smile on the ironmaster's face, as he 
watches his brother, who is pondering, deeply disappointed, "I 
think you may manage almost as well as if the thing were done, 
though." 

" How, brother ? " 

" Being bent upon it, you can dispose by will of anything you 
have the misfortune to inherit, in any way you like, you know." 

" That's true ! " says the trooper, pondering again. Then he 
wistfully asks, with his hand on his brother's, " Would you mind 
mentioning that, brother, to your wife and family 1 " 

" Not at all." 

" Thank you. You wouldn't object to say, perhaps, that although 
an undoubted vagabond, I am a vagabond of the harum scarum 
order, and not of the mean sort ? " 

The ironmaster, repressing his amused smile, assents. 

" Thank you. Thank you. It's a weight off my mind," says 
the trooper, with a heave of his chest as he unfolds his arms, and 
puts a hand on each leg ; " though I had set my heart on being 
scratched, too ! " 

The brothers are very like each other, sitting face to face ; but 
a certain massive simplicity, and absence of usage in the ways of 
the world, is all on the trooper's side. 

" Well," he proceeds, throwing off his disappointment, " next 
and last, those plans of mine. You have been so brotherly as to 
propose to me to fall in here, and take my place among the 
products of your perseverance and sense. I thank you heartily. 
It's more than brotherly, as I said before ; and I thank you heartily 
for it," shaking him a long time by the hand. " But the truth is, 
brother, I am a — I am a kind of a Weed, and it's too late to 
plant me in a regular garden." 

"My dear George," returns the elder, concentrating his strong 
steady brow upon him, and smiling confidently; "leave that to me, 
and let me try." 

George shakes his head. " You could do it, I have not a doubt, 
if anybody could ; but it's not to be done. Not to be done, sir ! 
Whereas it so falls out, on the other hand, that I am able to be of 
some trifle of use to Sir Leicester Dedlock since his illness — 



788 BLEAK HOUSE. 

brought on by family sorrows ; and that he would rather have 
that help from our mother's son than from anybody else." 

"Well, my dear George," returns the other, with a very slight 
shade upon his open face, " if you prefer to serve in Sir Leicester 
Dedlock's household brigade " 

" There it is, brother ! " cries the trooper, checking him, with 
his hand upon his knee again : " there it is ! You don't take 
kindly to that idea ; I don't mind it. You are not used to being 
officered ; I am. Everything about you is in perfect order and 
discipline ; everything about me requires to be kept so. We are 
not accustomed to carry things with the same hand, or to look at 
'em from the same point. I don't say much about my garrison 
manners, because I found myself pretty well at my ease last 
night, and they wouldn't be noticed here, I dare say, once and 
away. But I shall get on best at Chesney Wold — where there's 
more room for a Weed than there is here ; and the dear old lady 
will be made happy besides. Therefore I accept of Sir Leicester 
Dedlock's proposals. When I come over next year to give away 
the bride, or whenever I come, I shall have the sense to keep the 
household brigade in ambuscade, and not to manoeuvre it on your 
ground. I thank you heartily again, and am proud to think of 
the Rouncewells as they'll be founded by you." 

" You know yourself, George," says the elder brother, returning 
the grip of his hand, " and perhaps you know me better than I 
know myself. Take your way. So that we don't quite lose one 
another again, take your way." 

" No fear of that ! " returns the trooper. " Now, before I turn 
my horse's head homeards, brother, I will ask you — if you'll be 
so good — to look over, a letter for me. I brought it with me to 
send from these parts, as Chesney Wold might be a painful name 
just now to the person it's written to. I am not much accustomed 
to correspondence myself, and I am particular respecting this pres- 
ent letter, because I want it to be both straightforward and 
delicate." 

Herewith he hands a letter, closely written in somewhat pale 
ink but in a neat round hand, to the ironmaster, who reads as 
follows : 



" Miss Esther Summerson, 

" A communication having been made to me by Inspector Bucket 
of a letter to myself being found among the papers of a certain per- 
son, I take the liberty to make known to you that it was but a few 
lines of instruction from abroad, when, where, and how to deliver 



BLEAK HOUSE. 789 

an enclosed letter to a young and beautiful lady, then unmarried in 
England. I duly observed the same. 

" I further take the liberty to make known to you, that it was 
got from me as a proof of handwriting only, and that otherwise I 
would not have given it up as appearing to be the most harmless 
in my possession, without being previously shot through the heart. 

" I further take the liberty to mention, that if I could have sup- 
posed a certain unfortunate gentleman to have been in existence, I 
never could and never would have rested until I had discovered his 
retreat, and shared my last farthing with him, as my duty and 
my inclination would have equally been. But he was (officially) 
reported drowned, and assuredly went over the side of a transport- 
ship at night in an Irish harbour, within a few hours of her arrival 
from the West Indies, as I have myself heard both from officers 
and men on board, and know to have been (officially) confirmed. 

" I further take the liberty to state that in my humble quality 
as one of the rank and file, I am, and shall ever continue to be, 
your thoroughly devoted and admiring servant, and that I esteem 
the qualities you possess above all others, far beyond the limits of 
the present dispatch. 

" I have the honour to be, 

" George." 

"A little formal," observes the elder brother, refolding it with a 
puzzled face. 

" But nothing that might not be sent to a pattern young lady ? " 
asks the younger. 

"Nothing at all." 

Therefore it is sealed, and deposited for posting among the iron 
correspondence of the day. This done, Mr. George takes a hearty 
farewell of the family party, and prepares to saddle and mount. 
His brotlier, however, unwilling to part with him so soon, proposes 
to ride with him in a light open carriage to the place where he 
will bait for the night, and there remain with him until morning : 
a servant riding, for so much of the journey, on the thoroughbred 
old grey from Chesney Wold. The ofter being gladly accepted, is 
followed by a pleasant ride, a pleasant dinner, and a pleasant 
breakfast, all in brotherly communion. Then they once more 
shake hands long and heartily, and part ; the ironmaster turning 
his face to the smoke and fires, and the trooper to the green coun- 
try. Early in the afternoon, the subdued sound of his heavy mili- 
tary trot is heard on the turf in the avenue, as he rides on with 
imaginary clank and jingle of accoutrements under the old elm 
trees. 



790 BLEAK HOUSE. 

CHAPTER LXIV. 
Esther's narrative. 






Soon after I had had that conversation with my Guardian, he 
put a sealed paper in my hand one morning, and said, " This is for 
next month, my dear." I found in it two hundred pounds. 

I now began very quietly to make such preparations as I thought 
were necessary. Regulating my purchases by my Guardian's taste, 
which I knew very well of course, I arranged my wardrobe to 
please him, and hoped I should be highly successful. I did it all 
so quietly, because I was not quite free from my old apprehension 
that Ada would be rather sorry, and because my Guardian was so 
quiet himself I had no doubt that under all the circumstances 
we should be married in the most private and simple manner. Per- 
haps I should only have to say to Ada, " Would you like to come 
and see me married to-morrow, my pet ? " Perhaps our wedding 
might even be as unpretending as her own, and I might not find it 
necessary to say anything about it until it was over. I thought 
that if I were to choose, I would like this best. 

The only exception I made was Mrs. Woodcourt. I told her 
that I was going to be married to my Guardian, and that we had 
been engaged some time. She highly approved. She could never 
do enough for me ; and was remarkably softened now, in compari- 
son with what she had been when we first knew her. There was 
no trouble she would not have taken to have been of use to me ; 
but I need hardly say tliat I only allowed her to take as little, as 
gratified her kindness without tasking it. 

Of course this was not a time to neglect my Guardian ; and of 
course it was not a time for neglecting my darling. So I had 
plenty of occupation — -which I was glad of; and as to Charley, 
she was absolutely not to be seen for needlework. To surround 
herself with great heaps of it — baskets full and tables full — and 
do a little, and spend a great deal of time in staring with her round 
eyes at what there was to do, and persuade herself that she was 
going to do it, were Charley's great dignities and delights. 

Meanwhile, I must say, I could not agree Avith my Guardian on 
the subject of the Will, and I had some sanguine hopes of Jarndyce 
and Jarndyce. Which of us was right will soon appear, but I 
certainly did encourage expectations. In Richard, the discovery 
gave occasion for a burst of business and agitation that buoyed him 
up for a little time ; but he had lost the elasticity even of hope 
now, and seemed to me to retain only its feverish anxieties. From 
something my Guardian said one day, when we were talking about 



BLEAK HOUSE. 791 

this, I understood that my marriage would not take place until 
after the Term-time we had been told to look forward to ; and I 
thought the more, for that, how rejoiced I should be if I could be 
married when Richard and Ada were a little more prosperous. 

The Term was veiy near indeed, when my Guardian was called 
out of town, and went down into Yorkshire on Mr. Woodcourt's 
business. He had told me beforehand that his presence there would 
be necessary. I had just come in one night from my dear girl's, 
and was sitting in the midst of all my new clothes, looking at 
them all around me, and thinking, when a letter from my Guardian 
was brought to me. It asked me to join him in the country ; and 
mentioned by what stage-coach my place was taken, and at what 
time in the morning I should have to leave town. It added in a 
postscript that I would not be many hours from Ada. 

I expected few things less than a journey at that time, but I 
was ready for it in half-an-hour, and set off as appointed early next 
morning. I travelled all day, wondering all day what I could be 
wanted for at such a distance ; now I thought it might be for this 
purpose, and now I thought it might be for that purpose ; but I 
was never, never, never near the truth. 

It was night when I came to my journey's end, and found my 
Guardian waiting for me. This was a great relief, for towards 
evening I had begun to fear (the more so as his lette"r was a very 
short one) that he might be ill. However, there he was, as well 
as it was possible to be ; and when I saw his genial face again at 
its brightest and best, I said to myself he has been doing some 
other great kindness. Not that it required much penetration to 
say that, because I knew that his being there at aU was an act 
of kindness. 

Supper was ready at the hotel, and when we were alone at table 
he said : 

" Full of curiosity, no doubt, little woman, to know why I have 
brought you here 1 " 

" Well, Guardian," said I, " without thinking myself a Fatima, 
or you a Blue Beard, I am a little curious about it." 

" Then to ensure your night's rest, my love," he returned, gaily, 
"I won't wait until to-morrow to tell you. I have very much 
wished to express to Woodcourt, somehow, my sense of his humanity 
to poor unfortunate Jo, his inestimable services to my young cousins, 
and his value to us all. When it was decided that he should settle 
here, it came into my head that I might ask his acceptance of some 
unpretending and suitable little place, to lay his own head in. I 
therefore caused such a place to be looked out for, and such a place 
was found on very easy terms, and I have been touching it up for 



792 BLEAK HOUSE. 



1 

bat |{ 
as ■ 



him and making it habitable. However, when I walked over 
the day before yesterday, and it was reported ready, I found that 
I was not housekeeiDer enough to know whether things were all as 
they ought to be. So I sent off for the best little housekeeper 
that could possibly be got, to come and give me her advice and 
opinion. And here she is," said my Guardian, " laughing and crying 
both together ! " 

Because he was so dear, so good, so admirable. I tried to tell 
him what I thought of him, but I could not articulate a word. 

" Tut, tut ! " said my Guardian. " You make too much of it, 
little woman. Why how you sob. Dame Durden, how you sob ! " 

" It is with exquisite pleasure. Guardian — \nth a heart full of 
thanks." 

"Well, well," said he. "I am delighted that you approve. I 
thought you would. I meant it as a pleasant surprise for the little 
mistress of Bleak House." 

. I kissed him, and dried my eyes. " I know now ! " said I. "I 
have seen this in your face a long while." 

"No; have you really, my dear?" said he. "What a Dame 
Durden it is to read a face ! " 

He was so quaintly cheerful that I could not long be otherwise, 
and was almost ashamed of having been otherwise at aU. When 
I went to bed, I cried. I am bound to confess that I cried ; but I 
hope it was with pleasure, though I am not quite sure it was with 
pleasure. I repeated every word of the letter twice over. 

A most beautiful summer morning succeeded ; and after break- 
fast we went out arm in arm, to see the house of which I was to 
give my mighty housekeeping opinion. We entered a flower-garden 
by a gate in a side wall, of which he had the key ; and the first 
thing I saw, was, that the beds and flowers were all laid out 
according to the manner of my beds and flowers at home. 

"You see, my dear," observed my Guardian, standing stdl, with 
a delighted face, to watch my looks ; " knowing there could be no 
better plan, I borrowed yours." 

We went on by a pretty little orchard, where the cherries were 
nestling among the green leaves, and the shadows of the apple- 
trees were sporting on the grass, to the house itself, — a cottage, 
quite a rustic cottage of doll's rooms ; but such a lovely place, so 
tranquil and so beautiful, with such a rich and smiling countiy 
spread around it; with water sparkling away into the distance, 
here all overhung with summer growth, there turning a humming 
mill ; at its nearest point glancing through a meadow by the cheer- 
ful town, where cricket-players were assembling in bright groups, 
and a flag was flying from a white tent that rippled in the sweet 



BLEAK HOUSE. 793 

west wind. And still, as we went through the pretty rooms, out 
at the little rustic verandah doors, and underneath the tiny wooden 
colonnades, garlanded with woodbine, jasmine, and honeysuckle, I 
saw, in the papering on the walls, in the colours of the furniture, 
in the arrangement of all the pretty objects, my little tastes and 
fancies, my little methods and inventions which they used to 
laugh at while they praised them, my odd ways everywhere. 

I could not say enough in admiration of what was all so beau- 
tiful, but one secret doubt arose in my mind, when I saw this. I 
thought, would he be the happier for it ! Would it not have 
been better for his peace that I should not have been so brought 
before him ? Because, although I was not what he thought me, 
still he loved me very dearly, and it might remind him mournfully 
of what he believed he had lost. I did not wish him to forget me, 
— perhaps he might not have done so, without these aids to his 
memory, — but my way was easier than his, and I could have 
reconciled myself even to that, so that he had been the happier 
for it. 

"And now, little woman," said my Guardian, whom I had never 
seen so proud and joyful as in showing me these things, and watch- 
ing my appreciation of them, "now, last of all, for the name of 
this house." 

" What is it called, dear Guardian % " 

"My child," said he, "come and see." 

He took me to the porch, which he had hitherto avoided, and 
said, pausing before we went out : 

" My dear child, don't you guess the name % " 

" No ! " said I. 

We went out of the porch ; and he showed me written over it, 
Bleak House. 

He led me to a seat among the leaves close by, and sitting 
down beside me, and taking my hand in his, spoke to me thus : 

" My darling girl, in what there has been between us, I have, I 
hope, been really solicitous for your happiness. When I wrote you 
the letter to which you brought the answer," smiling as he referred 
to it, "I had my own too much in view ; but I had yours too. 
Whether, under different circumstances, I might ever have renewed 
the old dream I sometimes dreamed when you were very young, of 
making you my wife one day, I need not ask myself I did renew 
it, and I wrote my letter, and you brought your answer. You are 
following what I say, my child 1 " 

I was cold, and I trembled violently ; but not a word he uttered 
was lost. As I sat looking fixedly at him, and the sun's rays 
descended, softly shining through the leaves, upon his bare head, I 



794 BLEAK HOUSE. 

felt as if the brightness on him must be like the brightness of 
the Angels. 

" Hear me, my love, but do not speak. It is for me to speak 
now. When it was that I began to doubt whether what I had 
done would really make you happy, is no matter. Woodcourt 
came home, and I soon had no doubt at all." 

I clasped him round the neck, and hung my head upon his 
breast, and wept. " Lie lightly, confidently, here, my child," said 
he, pressing me gently to him. " I am your guardian and your 
father now. Rest confidently here." 

Soothingly, like the gentle rustling of the leaves ; and genially, 
like the ripening weather ; and radiantly and beneficently, like the 
sunshine ; he went on. 

"Understand me, my dear girl. I had no doubt of your being 
contented and happy with me, being so dutiful and so devoted ; 
but I saw with whom you would be happier. That I penetrated 
his secret when Dame Durden was bhnd to it, is no wonder ; for I 
knew the good that could never change in her, better far than she 
did. Well ! I have long been in Allan Woodcourt's confidence, 
although he was not, until yesterday, a few hours before you came 
here, in mine. But I would not have my Esther's bright example 
lost ; I would not have a jot of my dear girl's virtues unobserved 
and unhonoured ; I would not have her admitted on sufferance into 
the line of Morgan ap Kerrig, no, not for the weight in gold of all 
the mountains in Wales ! " 

He stopped to kiss me on the forehead, and I sobbed and wept 
afresh. For I felt as if I could not bear the painful delight of his 
praise. 

" Hush, little woman ! Don't cry ; this is to be a day of joy. 
I have looked forward to it," he said, exultingly, "for months on 
months ! A few words more, Dame Trot, and I have said my 
say. Determined not to throw away one atom of my Esther's 
worth, I took Mrs. Woodcourt into a separate confidence. ' Now, 
madam,' said I, ' I clearly perceive — and indeed I know, to boot 
— that your son loves my ward. I am further very sure that my 
ward loves your son, but will sacrifice her love to a sense of duty 
and affection,' and will sacrifice it so completely, so entirely, so 
religiously, that you should never suspect it, though you watched 
her night and day.' Then I told her all our story — ours — yours 
and mine. ' Now, madam,' said I, ' come you, knowing this, and 
live with us. Come you, and see my child from hour to hour ; set 
what you see, against her pedigree, which is this, and this ' — for 
I scorned to mince it — ' and tell me what is the true legitimacy, 
when you shall have quite made up your mind on that subject.' 



BLEAK HOUSE. 795 

Why, honour to her old Welch blood, my dear ! " cried my Guar- 
dian, with enthusiasm, " I believe the heart it animates beats no 
less warmly, no less admiringly, no less lovingly, towards Dame 
Durden, than my own ! " 

He tenderly raised my head, and as I clung to him, kissed me 
in his old fatherly way again and again. What a light, now, on 
the protecting manner I had thought about ! 

" One more last word. When Allan Woodcourt spoke to you, my 
dear, he spoke with my knowledge and consent ■ — but I gave him 
no encouragement, not I, for these surprises were my great reward, 
and I was too miserly to part with a scrap of it. He was to come, 
and tell me all that passed ; and he did. I have no more to say. 
My dearest, Allan Woodcourt stood beside your father when he lay 
dead — stood beside your mother. This is Bleak House. This 
day 1 give this house its little mistress ; and before God, it is 
the brightest day in all my life ! " 

He rose, and raised me with him. We were no longer alone. 
My husband — I have called him by that name full seven happy 
years now — stood at my side. 

"Allan," said my Guardian, "take from me, a willing gift, the 
best wife that ever a man had. What more can I say for you, 
than that I know you deserve her ! Take with her the little home 
she brings you. You know what she will make it, Allan ; you 
know what she has made its namesake. Let me share its felicity 
sometimes, and what do I sacrifice? Nothing, nothing." 

He kissed me once again ; and now the tears were in his eyes, 
as he said more softly : 

"Esther, my dearest, after so many years, there is a kind of 
parting in this too. I know that my mistake has caused you 
some distress. Forgive your old Guardian, in restoring him to 
his old place in your affections ; and blot it out of your memory. 
Allan, take my dear ! " 

He moved away from under the green roof of leaves, and stop- 
ping in the sunlight outside, and turning cheerfully towards us, 
said : 

" I shall be found about here somewhere. It's a West wind, 
little woman, due West ! Let no one thank me any more ; for I 
am going to revert to my bachelor habits, and if anybody disre- 
gards this warning, I'll run away, and never come back ! " 

What happiness was ours that day, what joy, what rest, what 
hope, what gratitude, what bliss ! We were to be married before 
the month was out ; but when we were to come and take posses- 
sion of our own house, was to depend on Richard and Ada. 



796 BLEAK HOUSE. 



I 



We all three went home together next day. As soon as we 
arrived in town, Allan went straight to see Richard, and to carry 
our joyful news to him and my darling. Late as it was, I meant 
to go to her for a few minutes before lying down to sleep : but I 
went home with my Guardian first, to make his tea for him, and 
to occupy the old chair by his side ; for I did not like to think of 
its being empty so soon. 

When we came home, we found that a young man had called 
three times in the course of that one day, to see me ; and that, 
having been told, on the occasion of his third call, that I was not 
expected to return before ten o'clock at night, he had left word, 
"that he would call about then." He had left his card three 
times. Mr. Guppy. 

As I naturally speculated on the object of these visits, and as 
I always associated something ludicrous with the visitor, it fell 
out that in laughing about Mr. Guppy I told my Guardian of his 
old proposal, and his subsequent retractation. "After that," said 
my Guardian, " we will certainly receive this hero." So, instruc- 
tions were given that Mr. Guppy should be shown in, when he 
came again ; and they were scarcely given when he did come again. 

He was embarrassed when he found my Guardian with me, but 
recovered himself, and said, " How de do, sir?" 

" How do you do, sir ? " returned my Guardian. 

" Thank you, sir, I am tolerable," returned Mr. Guppy. "Will 
you allow me to introduce my mother, Mrs. Guppy of the Old 
Street Road, and my particular friend, Mr. Weevle. That is to 
say, my friend has gone by the name of Weevle, but his name is 
really and truly Jobling." 

My Guardian begged them to be seated, and they all sat down. 

"Tony," said Mr. Guppy to his friend, after an awkward si- 
lence. " Will you open the case ? " 

"Do it yourself," returned the friend, rather tartly. 

"Well, Mr. Jarndyce, sir," Mr. Guppy, after a moment's con- 
sideration, began ; to the great diversion of his mother, which she 
displayed by nudging Mr. Jobling with her elbow, and winking at 
me in a most remarkable manner ; "I had an idea that I should 
see Miss Summerson by herself, and was not quite prepared for 
your esteemed presence. But Miss Summerson has mentioned to 
you, perhaps, that something has passed between iis on former 
occasions 1 " 

" Miss Summerson," returned my Guardian, smiling, "has made 
a communication to that effect to me." 

"That," said Mr. Guppy, "makes matters easier. Sir, I have 
come out of my articles at Kenge and Carboy's, and I believe with 



BLEAK HOUSE. 797 

satisfaction to all parties. I am now admitted (after undergoing 
an examination that's enough to badger a man blue, touching a 
pack of nonsense that he don't want to know) on the roll of attor- 
neys, and have taken out my certificate, if it would be any satis- 
faction to you to see it." 

"Thank you, Mr. Guppy," returned my Guardian. "I am 
quite willing — I believe I use a legal phrase — to admit the 
certificate." 

Mr. Guppy therefore desisted from taking something out of his 
pocket, and proceeded without it. 

" I have no capital myself, but my mother has a little property 
which takes the form of an annuity ; " here Mr. Guppy's mother 
rolled her head as if she never could sufficiently enjoy the obser- 
vation, and put her handkerchief to her mouth, and again winked 
at me ; "and a few pounds for expenses out of pocket in conduct- 
in" business, will never be wanting, fi'ee of interest. Which is an 
^ge, you know," said Mr. Guppy, feelingly, 
^'uly an advantage," returned my Guardian. 

^ome connection," pursued Mr. Gujjpy, "and it lays 
., ■• of Walcot Square, Lambeth. I have therefore 

ti\l that locality, which, in the opinion of my friends, 

is . „rgain (taxes ridiculous, and use of fixtures included 

in the „ and intend setting up professionally for myself there, 
forthwii.i." 

Here Mr. Guppy's mother fell into an extraordinary passion of 
rolling her head, and smiling waggishly at anybody who would 
look at her. 

"It's a six roomer, exclusive of kitchens," said Mr. Guppy, 
"and in the opinion of my friends, a commodious tenement. 
When I mention my friends, I refer principally to my friend Job- 
ling, who I believe has known me," Mr. Guppy looked at him 
with a sentimental air, " from boyhood's hour ? " 

Mr. Jobling confirmed this, with a sliding movement of his legs. 

" My friend Jobling will render me his assistance in the capacity 
of clerk, and will live in the ouse," said Mr. Guppy. "My 
mother will likewise live in the ouse, when her present quarter in 
the Old Street Road shall have ceased and expired; and conse- 
quently there will be no want of society. My friend Jobling is 
naturally aristocratic by taste ; and besides being acquainted with 
the movements of the ujiper circles, fully backs me in the inten- 
tions I am now developing." 

Mr. Jobling said "certainly," and withdrew a little from the 
elbow of Mr. Guppy's mother. 

" Now, I have no occasion to mention to you, sir, you being in 



798 BLEAK HOUSE. 

the confidence of Miss Summerson," said Mr. Guppy "(mother, I 
wish you'd be so good as to keep still), that Miss Summerson's 
image was formerly imprinted on my art, and that I made her a 
proposal of marriage." 

" That I have heard," returned my Guardian. 

"Circumstances," pursued Mr. Guppy, "over which I had no 
control, but quite the contrary, weakened the impression of that 
image for a time. At which time, Miss Summerson's conduct was 
highly genteel ; I may even add, magnanimous." 

My Guardian patted me on the shoulder, and seemed much 
amused. 

"Now, sir," said Mr. Guppy, "I have got into that state of 
mind myself, that I wish for a reciprocity of magnanimous be- 
haviour. I wish to prove to Miss Summerson that I can rise to 
a heighth, of which perhaps she hardly thought me capable. I 
find that the image which I did suppose had been eradicated from 
my art, is not eradicated. Its influence over me is still tremen- 
jous ; and yielding to it I am willing to overlook the circumstances 
over which none of us have had any control, and to renew those 
proposals to Miss Summerson which I had the honour to make at 
a former period. I beg to lay the ouse in Walcot Square, the 
business, and myself, before Miss Summerson for her acceptance." 

"Very magnanimous, indeed, su-," observed my Guardian. 

"Well, sir," returned Mr. Guppy, with candour, "my wish is to 
he magnanimous. I do not consider that in making this offer to 
Miss Summerson, I am by any means throwing myself away ; 
neither is that the opinion of my friends. Still there are circum- 
stances which I submit may be taken into account as a set-off 
against any little drawbacks of mine, and so a fair and equitable 
balance arrived at." 

" I take upon myself, sir," said my Guardian, laughing as he 
rang the bell, " to reply to your proposals on behalf of Miss Sum- 
merson. She is very sensible of your handsome intentions, and 
wishes you good evening, and wishes you well." 

" Oh ! " said Mr. Guppy, with a blank look. " Is that tanta- 
mount, sir, to acceptance, or rejection, or consideration ? " 

"To decided rejection, if you please," returned my Guardian. 

Mr. Guppy looked incredulously at his friend, and at his mother 
who suddenly turned very angry, and at the floor, and at the 
ceiling. 

" Indeed 1 " said he. " Then, JobUng, if you was the friend you 
represent yourself, I should think you might hand my mother out 
of the gangway, instead of allowing her to remain where she ain't 
wanted." 



1 



800 BLEAK HOUSE. 



I 



But Mrs. Guppy positively refused to come out of the gangway. 
She wouldn't hear of it. " Why, get along with you," said she to 
my Guardian, " what do you mean ? Ain't my son good enough for 
you 1 You ought to be ashamed of yourself. Get out with you ! " 

"My good lady," returned my Guardian, "it is hardly reasonable 
to ask me to get out of my own room." 

" I don't care for that," said Mrs. Guppy. " Get out with 
you. If we ain't good enough for you, go and procure somebody 
that is good enough. Go along and find 'em." 

I was quite unprepared for the rapid manner in which Mrs, 
Guppy's power of jocularity merged into a power of taking the 
profoundest offence. 

" Go along and find somebody that's good enough for you," 
repeated Mrs. Guppy. " Get out ! " Nothing seemed to astonish 
Mr. Guppy's mother so much, and to make her so very indignant, as 
our not getting out. " Why don't you get out ? " said Mrs. Guppy. 
" What are you stopping here for ? " 

"Mother," interposed her son, always getting before her, and 
pushing her back with one shoulder, as she sidled at my Guardian, 
" will you hold your tongue 1 " 

" No, William," she returned ; " I won't ! Not unless he gets 
out, I won't ! " 

However, Mr. Guppy and Mr. Jobling together closed on Mr. 
Guppy's mother (who began to be quite abusive), and took her, 
very much against her will, down-stairs ; her voice rising a stair 
higher every time her figure got a stair lower, and insisting that 
we should immediately go and find somebody who was good enough 
for us, and above all things that we should get out. 



CHAPTER LXV. 

BEGINNING THE WOELD. 

The Term had commenced, and my Guardian found an intima- 
tion from Mr. Kenge that the Cause would come on in two days. 
As I had suflicient hopes of the will to be in a flutter about it, 
Allan and I agreed to go down to the Court that morning. Richard 
was extremely agitated, and was so weak and low, though his ill- 
ness was still of the mind, that my dear girl indeed had sore occa- 
sion to be supported. But she looked forward — a very little way 
now — to the help that was to come to her, and never drooped. 

It was at Westminster that the Cause was to come on. It had 
come on there, I dare say, a himdred times before, but I could not 



BLEAK HOUSE. 801 

divest myself of an idea that it might lead to some result now. 
We left home directly after breakfast, to be at Westminster Hall 
in good time ; and walked down there through the lively streets — 
so hapiDily and strangely it seemed ! — together. 

As we were going along, planning what we should do for Richard 
and Ada, I heard somebody calling " Esther ! My dear Esther ! 
Esther ! " And there was Caddy Jellyby, with her head out of the 
window of a little carriage which she hired now to go about in to 
her pupils (she had so many), as if she wanted to embrace me at a 
hundred yards' distance. I had written her a note to tell her of 
all that my Guardian had done, but had not had a moment to go 
and see her. Of course we turned back ; and the affectionate girl 
was in that state of rapture, and was so overjoyed to talk about 
the night when she brought me the flowers, and was so determined 
to squeeze my face (bonnet and all) between her hands, and go on 
in a wild manner altogether, calling me all kinds of precious names, 
and telling Allan I had done I don't know what for her, that I 
was just obliged to get into the little carriage and calm her down, 
by letting her say and do exactly what she liked. Allan, standing 
at the window, was as pleased as Caddy ; and I was as pleased as 
either of them; and I wonder that I got away as I did, rather 
than that I came off, laughing, and red, and anything but tidy, 
and looking after Caddy, who looked after us out of the coach- 
window as long as she could see us. 

This made us some quarter of an hour late, and when we came 
to Westminster Hall we found that the day's business was begun. 
Worse than that, we found such an unusual crowd in the Court of 
Chancery that it was full to the door, and we could neither see nor 
hear what was passing within. It appeared to be something droll, 
for occasionally there was a laugh, and a cry of "Silence!" It 
appeared to be something interesting, for every one was pushing 
and striving to get nearer. It appeared to be something that made 
the professional gentleman very merry, for there were several young 
counsellors in wigs and whiskers on the outside of the crowd, and 
when one of them told the others about it, they put their hands in 
their pockets, and quite doubled themselves up with laughter, and 
went stamping about the pavement of the hall. 

We asked a gentleman by us, if he knew what cause was on ? 
He told us Jamdyce and Jarndyce. We asked him if he knew 
what was doing in it 1 He said, really no he did not, nobody ever 
did ; but as well as he could make out, it was over. Over for the 
day 1 we asked him. No, he sayi ; over for good. 

Over for good ! 

When we heard this unaccountable answer, we looked at one 



802 BLEAK HOUSE. 

another quite lost in amazement. Could it be possible that the 
Will had set things right at last, and that Richard and Ada 
were going to be rich ? It seemed too good to be true. Alas it 
was! 

Our suspense was short ; for a break-up soon took place in the 
crowd, and the people came streaming out looking flushed and hot, 
and bringing a quantity of bad air with them. Still they were all 
exceedingly amused, and were more like people coming out from a 
Farce or a Juggler than from a court of Justice. We stood aside, 
watching for any countenance we knew ; and presently great bun- 
dles of papers began to be carried out — bundles in bags, bundles 
too large to be got into any bags, immense masses of papers of 
all shapes and no shapes, which the bearers staggered under, and 
threw down for the time being, anyhow, on the Hall pavement, 
while they went back to bring out more. Even these clerks were 
laughing. We glanced at the papers, and seeing Jarndyce and 
Jarndyce everywhere, asked an official-looking person who was 
standing in the midst of them, whether the cause was over. 
"Yes," he said; "it was all up with it at last !" and burst out 
laughing too. 

At this juncture, we perceived Mr. Kenge coming out of court 
with an affable dignity upon him, listening to Mr. Vholes, who was 
deferential, and carried his own bag. Mr. Vholes was the first to 
see us. "Here is Miss Summerson, sir," he said. "And Mr. 
Woodcourt." 

" indeed ! Yes. Truly ! " said Mr. Kenge, raising his hat to 
me with polished politeness. "How do you do? Glad to see 
you. Mr. Jarndyce is not here ? " 

No. He never came there, I reminded him. 

"Really," returned Mr. Kenge, "it is as well that he is not 
here to-day, for his — shall I say, in my good friend's absence, his 
indomitable singularity of opinion 1 — might have been strength- 
ened, perhaps ; not reasonably, but might have been strengthened." 

" Pray what has been done to-day 1 " asked Allan. 

" I beg your pardon 1 " said Mr. Kenge, with excessive urbanity. 

" What has been done to-day ? " 

" What has been done," repeated Mr. Kenge. " Quite so. Yes. 
Why, not much has been done ; not much. We have been checked 
— brought up suddenly, I would say — upon the — shall I term 
it threshold 1 " 

" Is this Will considered a genuine document, sir ? " said Allan ; 
"will you tell us that?" 

"Most certainly, if I could," said Mr. Kenge; "but we have 
not gone into that, we have not gone into that." 



BLEAK HOUSE. 803 

"We have not gone into that," repeated Mr. Vholes, as if his 
low inward voice were an echo. 

"You are to reflect, Mr. Woodcourt," observed Mr. Kenge, 
using his silver trowel, persuasively and smoothingly, "that this 
has been a great cause, that this has been a protracted cause, that 
this has been a complex cause. Jarndyce and Jarndyce has been 
termed, not inaptly, a Monument of Chancery practice." 

"And Patience has sat upon it a long time," said Allan. 

"Very well indeed, sir," returned Mr. Kenge, with a certain 
condescending laugh he had. "Very well! You are further to 
reflect, Mr. Woodcourt," becoming dignified to severity, "that on 
the numerous difficulties, contingencies, masterly fictions, and forms 
of procedure in this great cause, there has been expended study, 
ability, eloquence, knowledge, intellect, Mr. Woodcourt, high intel- 
lect. For many years, the — a — -I would say the flower of the 
Bar, and the — a — I would presume to add, the matured autumnal 
fruits of the Woolsack — have been lavished upon Jarndyce and 
Jarndyce. If the public have the benefit, and if the country have 
the adorrmient, of this great Grasp, it must be paid for, in money 
or money's worth, sir." 

"Mr. Kenge," said Allan, appearing enlightened all in a moment. 
" Excuse me, our time presses. Do I understand that the whole 
estate is found to have been absorbed in costs 1 " 

" Hem ! I believe so," returned Mr. Kenge. " Mr. Vholes, 
what do 1/ou say 1 " 

"I believe so," said Mr. Vholes. 

" And that thus the suit lapses and melts away ? " 

"Probably," returned Mr. Kenge. "Mr. Vholes?" 

" Probably," said Mr. Vholes. 

"My dearest life," whispered Allan, "this will break Richard's 
heart ! " 

There was such a shock of apprehension in his face, and he 
knew Richard so perfectly, and I too had seen so much of his 
gradual decay, that what my dear girl had said to me in the 
fulness of her foreboding love, sounded like a knell in my ears. 

"In case you should be wanting Mr. C, sir," said Mr. Vholes, 
coming after us, " you'll find him in court. I left him there rest- 
ing himself a little. Good day, sir ; good day. Miss Summerson." 
As he gave me that slowly devouring look of his, while twisting 
up the strings of his bag, before he hastened with it after Mr. 
Kenge, the benignant shadow of whose conversational presence he 
seemed afraid to leave, he gave one gasp as if he had swallowed 
the last morsel of this client, and his black buttoned-up unwhole- 
some figure glided away to the low door at the end of the hall. 



804 BLEAK HOUSE. 

" My dear love," said Allan, " leave to me, for a little while, the 
charge you gave me. Go home with this intelligence, and come to 
Ada's by-and-bye ! " 

I would not let him take me to a coach, but entreated him to 
go to Richard without a moment's delay, and leave me to do as he 
wished. Hurrying home, I found my Guardian, and told him 
gradually with what news I had returned. " Little woman," said 
he, quite unmoved for himself, " to have done with the suit on 
any terms, is a greater blessing than I had looked for. But my 
poor young cousins ! " 

We talked about them all the morning, and discussed what it 
was possible to do. In the afternoon, my Guardian walked with 
me to Symond's Inn, and left me at the door. I went up-stairs. 
When my darling heard my footsteps, she came out into the small 
passage and threw her arms round my neck; but she composed 
herself directly, and said that Richard had asked for me several 
times. Allan had found him sitting in a corner of the court, she 
told me, like a stone figure. On being roused, he had broken 
away, and made as if he woidd have spoken in a fierce voice to 
the judge. He was stopped by his mouth being full of blood, 
and Allan had brought him home. 

He was lying on the sofa with his eyes closed, when I went in. 
There were restoratives on the table ; the room was made as airy 
as possible, and was darkened, and was very orderly and quiet. 
Allan stood behind him, watching him gravely. His face appeared 
to me to be quite destitute of colour, and, now that I saw him with- 
out his seeing me, I fully saw, for the first time, how worn away he 
was. But he looked handsomer than I had seen him look for 
many a day. 

I sat down by his side in sUence. Opening his eyes by-and-bye, 
he said, in a weak voice but with his old smUe, " Dame Durden, 
kiss me, my dear ! " 

It was a great comfort and surprise to me, to find him in his low 
state cheerful and looking forward. He was happier, he said, in 
our intended marriage, than he could find words to tell me. My 
husband had been a guardian angel to him and Ada, and he blessed 
us both, and wished us all the joy that life could yield us. I almost 
felt as if my own heart would have broken, when I saw him take 
my husband's hand and hold it to his breast. 

We spoke of the future as much as possible, and he said several 
times that he must be present at our marriage if he could stand upon 
his feet. Ada would contrive to take him, somehow, he said. 
" Yes, surely, dearest Richard ! " But as my darling answered him 
thus hopefully, so serene and beautiful, with the help that was to 
come to her so near, — I knew — I knew ! 



BLEAK HOUSE. 806 

It was not good for him to talk too much ; and when he was 
silent, we were silent too. Sitting beside him, I made a pretence 
of working for my dear, as he had always been used to joke about 
my being busy. Ada leaned upon his pillow, holding his head upon 
her arm. He dozed often ; and whenever he awoke without seeing 
him, said, first of all, " Where is Woodcourt 1 " 

Evening had come on, when I lifted up my eyes, and saw my 
Guardian standing in the little hall. "Who is that. Dame Bur- 
den ? " Richard asked me. The door was behind him, but he had 
observed in my face that some one was there. 

I looked to Allan for advice, and as he nodded "Yes," bent over 
Richard and told him. My Guardian saw whaf; passed, came softly 
by me in a moment, and laid his hand on Richard's. " sir," said 
Richard, " you are a good man, you are a good man ! " and burst 
into tears for the first time. 

My Guardian, the picture of a good man, sat down in my place, 
keeping his hand on Richard's. 

"My dear Rick," said he, "the clouds have cleared away, and it 
is bright now. We can see now. We were all bewildered. Rick, 
more or less. What matters ! And how are you, my dear boy ? " 

"I am very weak, sir, but I hope I shall be stronger. I have to 
begin the world." 

" Aye, truly ; well said ! " cried my Guardian. 

"I will not begin it in the old way now," said Richard with a 
sad smile. " I have learned a lesson now, sir. It was a hard one ; 
but you shall be assured, indeed, that I have learned it." 

"Well, well," said my Guardian, comforting him; "well, well, 
well, dear boy ! " 

"I was thinking, sir," resumed Richard, "that there is nothing 
on earth I should so much like to see as their house — Dame 
Burden's and Woodcourt's house. If I could be moved there when 
I begin to recover my strength, I feel as if I should get well there, 
sooner than anywhere." 

"Why, so have I been thinking, too. Rick," said my Guardian, 
" and our little woman likewise ; she and I have been talking of it, 
this very day. I dare say her husband won't object. What do you 
think?" 

Richard smiled ; and lifted up his arm to touch him, as he stood 
behind the head of his couch. 

"I say nothing of Ada," said Richard, "but I think of her, and 
have thought of her very much. Look at her ! see her here, sir, 
bending over this pillow when she has so much need to rest upon 
it herself, my dear love, my poor girl ! " 

He clasped her in his arms, and none of us spoke. He gradually 



806 BLEAK HOUSE. 

released her; and she looked upon us, and looked up to heaven, 
and moved her lips. 

" When I get down to Bleak House," said Eichard, " I shall have 
much to tell you, sir, and you will have much to show me. You 
will go, won't you ? " 

"Undoubtedly, dear Eick." 

" Thank you ; like you, like you," said Eichard. " But it's all 
like you. They have been telling me how you planned it, and how 
you remembered all Esther's familiar tastes and ways. It will be 
like coming to the old Bleak House again." 

" And you will come there too, I hope, Eick. I am a solitary man 
now, you know, and it will be a charity to come to me. A charity 
to come to me, my love ! " he repeated to Ada, as he gently passed 
his hand over her golden hair, and put a lock of it to his lips. (I 
think he vowed within himself to cherish her if she were left alone.) 

" It was all a troubled dream 1 " said Eichard, clasping both my 
Guardian's hands eagerly. 

" Nothing more, Eick ; nothing more." 

" And you, being a good man, can pass it as such, and forgive 
and pity the dreamer, and be lenient and encouraging when he 
wakes ? " 

" Indeed I can. What am I but another dreamer, Eick ? " 

" I will begin the world ! " said Eichard, with a light in his eyes. 

My husband drew a little nearer towards Ada, and I saw him 
solemnly lift up his hand to warn my Guardian. 

" When shall I go from this place, to that pleasant country where 
the old times are, where I shall have strength to tell what Ada has 
been to me, where I shall be able to recall my many faults and 
blindnesses, where I shall prepare myself to be a guide to my un- 
born child 1 " said Eichard. " When shall I go ? " 

" Dear Eick, when you are strong enough," returned my Guardian. 

" Ada, my darling ! " 

He sought to raise himself a little. Allan raised him so that she 
could hold him on her bosom : which was what he wanted. 

" I have done you many wrongs, my own. I have fallen like a 
poor stray shadow on your way, I have married you to poverty and 
trouble, I have scattered your means to the winds. You will for- 
give me all this, my Ada, before 1 begin the world ? " 

A smile irradiated his face, as she bent to kiss him. He slowly 
laid his face down upon her bosom, drew his arms closer round 
her neck, and with one parting sob began the world. Not this 
world, not this ! The world that sets this right. 

When all was still, at a late hour, poor crazed Miss Flite came 
weeping to me, and told me that she had given her birds their 
liberty. 




THE MAUSOLEUM AT CHESNEY WOLD. 



808 BLEAK HOUSE. 

CHAPTER LXVI. 

DOWN IN LINCOLNSHIRE. 

There is a hush upon Chesney Wold in these altered days, as 
there is upon a portion of the family history. The story goes, 
that Sir Leicester paid some who could have spoken out, to hold 
their peace ; but it is a lame story, feebly whispering and creeping 
about, and any brighter spark of life it shows soon dies away. It 
is known for certain that the handsome Lady Dedlock lies in the 
mausoleum in the park, where the trees arch darkly overhead, and 
the owl is heard at night making the woods ring ; but whence she 
was brought home, to be laid among the echoes of that solitary 
place, or how she died, is all mystery. Some of her old friends, 
principally to be found among the peachy-cheeked charmers with 
the skeleton throats, did once occasionally say, as they toyed in a 
ghastly manner with large fans — like charmers reduced to flirting 
with grim Death, after losing all their other beaux — did once 
occasionally say, when the World assembled together, that they 
wondered the ashes of the Dedlocks, entombed in the mausoleum, 
never rose against the profanation of her company. But the dead- 
and-gone Dedlocks take it very calmly, and have never been known 
to object. 

Up from among the fern in the hollow, and winding by the 
bridle-road among the trees, comes sometimes to this lonely spot 
the sound of horses' hoofs. Then may be seen Sir Leicester — 
invalided, bent, and almost blind, but of a worthy presence yet — 
riding with a stalwart man beside him, constant to his bridle-rein. 
When they come to a certain spot before the mausoleum door, Sir 
Leicester's accustomed horse stops of his own accord, and Sir 
Leicester, puUing off his hat, is still for a few moments before they 
ride away. 

War rages yet with the audacious Boythorn, though at uncer- 
tain intervals, and now hotly, and now coolly; flickering like an 
unsteady fire. The truth is said to be, that when Sir Leicester 
came down to Lincolnshire for good, Mr. Boythorn showed a mani- 
fest desire to abandon his right of way, and do whatever Sir Leices- 
ter would : which Sir Leicester, conceiving to be a concession to 
his illness or misfortune, took in such high dudgeon,- and was so 
magnificently aggrieved by, that Mr. Boythorn found himself under 
the necessity of committing a flagrant trespass to restore his neigh- 
bour to himself Similarly Mr. Boythorn continues to post tre- 
mendous placards on the disputed thoroughfare, and (with his bird 
upon his head) to hold forth vehemently against Sir Leicester in 



BLEAK HOUSE. 809 

the sanctuary of his own home ; similarly, also, he defies him as of 
old in the little church, by testifying a bland unconsciousness of 
his existence. But it is whispered that when he is most ferocious 
towards his old foe, he is really most considerate; and that Sir 
Leicester, in the dignity of being implacable, little supposes how 
much he is humoured. As little does he think how near together 
he and his antagonist have suffered, in the fortunes of two sisters ; 
and his antagonist, who knows it now, is not the man to tell him. 
So the quarrel goes on, to the satisfaction of both. 

In one of the lodges of the park ; that lodge within sight of the 
house where, once upon a time, when the waters were out down in 
Lincolnshire, my Lady used to see the Keeper's child ; the stalwart 
man, the trooper formerly, is housed. Some relics of his old call- 
ing hang upon the walls, and these it is the chosen recreation of a 
little lame man about the stable-yard to keep gleaming bright. A 
busy little man he always is, in the polishing at harness-house 
doors, of stirrup-irons, bits, curb-chains, harness-bosses, anything 
in the way of a stable-yard that will take a polish : leading a life 
of friction. A shaggy little damaged man, withal, not unlike an 
old dog of some mongrel breed, who has been considerably knocked 
about. He answers to the name of Phil. 

A goodly sight it is to see the grand old housekeeper (harder 
of hearing now) going to church on the arm of her son, and to 
observe — which few do, for the house is scant of company in these 
times — the relations of both towards Sir Leicester, and his towards 
them. They have visitors in the high summer weather, when a 
grey cloak and umbrella, unknown to Chesney Wold at other 
periods, are seen among the leaves; when two young ladies are 
occasionally found gambolling, in sequestered saw-pits and such 
nooks of the park ; and when the smoke of two pipes wreathes away 
into the fragrant evening air, from the trooper's door. Then is a 
fife heard trolling within the lodge, on the inspiring topic of the 
British Grenadiers ; and, as the evening closes in, a gruff inflexible 
voice is heard to say, while two men pace together up and down, 
" But I never own to it before the old girl. Discipline must be 
maintained." 

The greater part of the house is shut up, and it is a show-house 
no longer ; yet Sir Leicester holds his shnmken state in the long 
drawing-room for all that, and reposes in his old place before my 
Lady's picture. Closed in by night with broad screens, and illu- 
mined only in that part, the light of the drawing-room seems 
gradually contracting and dwindling until it shall be no more. A 
little more, in truth, and it will be all extinguished for Sir Leices- 
ter ; and the damp door in the mausoleum which shuts so tight, 
and looks so obdurate, will have opened and relieved him. 



810 BLEAK HOUSE. 

Volumnia, growing with the flight of time pinker as to the red 

in her face and yellower as to the white, reads to Sir Leicester in 
the long evenings, and is driven to various artifices to conceal her 
yawns : of which the chief and most efficacious is the insertion of 
the pearl necklace between her rosy lips. Long-winded treatises 
on the Buffy and Boodle question, showing how Buffy is immacu- 
late and Boodle villainous, and how the country is lost by being 
all Boodle and no Bufiy, or saved by being all Buffy and no Boodle 
(it must be one of the two, and cannot be anything else), are the 
staple of her reading. Sir Leicester is not particular what it is, 
and does not appear to follow it very closely ; further than that he 
always comes broad awake the moment Volumnia ventures to leave 
off, and, sonorously repeating her last word, begs with some dis- 
pleasure to know if she finds herself fatigued ? However, Volum- 
nia, in the course of her bird-like hopping about and pecking at 
papers, has lighted on a memorandum concerning herself, in the 
event of " anything happening " to her kinsman, which is hand- 
some compensation for an extensive course of reading, and holds 
even the dragon Boredom at bay. 

The cousins generally are rather shy of Chesney Wold in its 
dulness, but take to it a little in the shooting season, when guns 
are heard in the plantations, and a few scattered beaters and 
keepers wait at the old places of appointment, for low-spirited 
twos and threes of cousins. The debilitated cousin, more debili- 
tated by the dreariness of the place, gets into a fearful state of 
depression, groaning under penitential sofa-pillows in his gunless 
hours, and protesting that such fernal old jail's — nough t'sew fler 
up — frever. 

The only great occasions for Volumnia, in this changed aspect 
of the place in Lincolnshire, are those occasions, rare and widely- 
separated, when something is to be done for the county, or the 
country, in the way of gracing a public ball. Then, indeed, does 
the tuckered sylph come out in fairy form, and proceed with joy 
under cousinly escort to the exhausted old assembly-room, fourteen 
heavy miles off; which, during three hundred and sixty-four days 
and nights of every ordinary year, is a kind of Antipodean lumber- 
room, full of old chairs and tables, upside down. Then, indeed, 
does she captivate all hearts by her condescension, by her girlish 
vivacity, and by her skipping about as in the days when the 
hideous old general with the mouth too full of teeth, had not cut 
one of them at two guineas each. Then does she twirl and twine, 
a pastoral nymph of good family, through the mazes of the dance. 
Then do the swains appear with tea, with lemonade, with sand- 
wiches, with homage. Then is she kind and cruel, stately and 



1 



BLEAK HOUSE. 811 

unassuming, various, beautifully wilful. Then is there a singular 
kind of parallel between her and the little glass chandeliers of 
another age, embellishing that assembly-room ; which, with their 
meagre stems, their spare little drops, their disappomting knobs 
where no drops are, their bare little stalks from which knobs and 
drops have both departed, and their little feeble prismatic twink- 
ling, all seem Volumnias. 

For the rest, Lincolnshire life to Volumnia is a vast blank of 
overgrown house looking out upon trees, sighing, wringing their 
hands, bowing their heads, and casting their tears upon the win- 
dow-panes in monotonous depression. A labyrinth of grandeur, 
less the property of an old family of human beings and their 
ghostly likenesses, than of an old family of echoings and thunder- 
ings which start out of their hundred graves at every sound, and 
go resounding through the building. A waste of unused passages 
and staircases, in which to drop a comb upon a bed-room floor at 
night is to send a stealthy footfall on an errand through the house. 
A place where few people care to go about alone ; where a maid 
screams if an ash drops from the fire, takes to crying at all times 
and seasons, becomes the victim of a low disorder of the spirits, 
and gives warning and departs. 

Thus Chesney Wold. With so much of itself abandoned to 
darkness and vacancy; with so little change under the summer 
shining or the wintry lowering ; so sombre and motionless always 
— no flag flying now by day, no rows of lights sparkling by night ; 
with no family to come and go, no visitors to be the souls of pale 
cold shapes of rooms, no stir of life about it ; — passion and pride, 
even to the stranger's eye, have died away from the place in 
Lincolnshire, and yielded it to dull repose. 



CHAPTER LXVII. 

THE CLOSE OF ESTHER'S NARRATIVE. 

Full seven happy years I have been the mistress of Bleak House. 
The few words that I have to add to what I have written, are soon 
penned ; then I, and the unknown friend to whom I write, will 
part for ever. Not without much dear remembrance on my side. 
Not without some, I hope, on his or hers. 

They gave my darling into my arms, and through many weeks I 
never left her. The little child who was to have done so much, was 
born before the turf was planted on its father's grave. It was a boy ; 
and I, my husband, and my Guardian, gave him his father's name. 



812 BLEAK HOUSE. 

The help that my dear counted on did come to her ; though it 
came, in the Eternal wisdom, for another purpose. Though to 
bless and restore his mother, not his father, was the errand of this 
baby, its power was mighty to do it. When I saw the strength 
of the weak little hand, and how its touch could heal my darling's 
heart, and raise up hope within her, I felt a new sense of the 
goodness and the tenderness of God. 

They throve ; and by degrees I saw my dear girl pass into my 
country garden, and walk there with her infant in her arms. I 
was married then. I was the happiest of" the happy. 

It was at this time that my Guardian joined us, and asked Ada 
when she would come home 1 

"Both houses are your home, my dear," said he, "but the older 
Bleak House claims priority. When you and my boy are strong 
enough to do it, come and take possession of your home." 

Ada called him " her dearest cousin, John." But he said, No, 
it must be Guardian now. He was her Guardian henceforth, and 
the boy's ; and he had an old association with the name. So she 
caUed him Guardian, and has called him Guardian ever since. The 
children know him by no other name. — I say the children ; I have 
two little daughters. 

It is difficult to believe that Charley (round-eyed still, and not 
at all grammatical) is married to a miller in our neighbourhood ; 
yet so it is ; and even now, looking up from my desk as I write, 
early in the morning at my summer window, I see the very mill 
beginning to go round. I hope the miller will not spoil Charley ; 
but he is very fond of her, and Charley is rather vain of such a 
match — for he is well to do, and was in great request. So far as 
my small maid is concerned, I might suppose Time to have stood 
for seven years as still as the mill did half an hour ago ; since 
little Emma, Charley's sister, is exactly what Charley used to be. 
As to Tom, Charley's brother, I am really afraid to say what he 
did at school in cyphering, but I think it was Decimals. He is 
apprenticed to the miller, whatever it was ; and is a good bashful 
fellow, always falling in love with somebody, and being ashamed 
of it. 

Caddy Jellyby passed her very last holidays with us, and was a 
dearer creature than ever ; perpetually dancing in and out of the 
house with the children, as if she had never given a dancing-lesson 
in her life. Caddy keeps her own little carriage now, instead of 
hiring one, and lives full two miles further westward than New- 
man Street. She works very hard, her husband (an excellent one) 
being lame, and able to do very little. Still, she is more than con- 
tented, and does all she has to do with all her heart. Mr. Jellyby 



BLEAK HOUSE. 813 

spends his evenings at her new house with his head against the wall, 
as he used to do in her old one. I have heard that Mrs. Jellyby was 
understood to suffer great mortification, from her daughter's ignoble 
marriage and pursuits ; but I hope she got over it in time. She 
has been disappointed in Borrioboola Gha, which turned out a 
failure in consequence of the King of Borrioboola wanting to sell 
everybody — who survived the climate — for Rum ; but she has 
taken up with the rights of women to sit in Parliament, and Caddy 
tells me it is a mission involving more correspondence than the old 
one. I had almost forgotten Caddy's poor little girl. She is not 
such a mite now; but she is deaf and dumb. I believe there 
never was a better mother than Caddy, who learns, in her scanty 
intervals of leisure, innumerable deaf and dumb arts, to soften the 
affliction of her child. 

As if I were never to have done with Caddy, I am reminded 
here of Peepy and old Mr. Turveydrop. Peepy is in the Custom- 
house, and doing extremely well. Old Mr. Turveydrop, very 
apoplectic, still exhibits his Deportment about town ; still enjoys 
himself in the old manner ; is still believed in, in the old way. 
He is constant in his patronage of Peepy, and is understood to have 
bequeathed him a favourite French clock in his dressing-room — 
which is not his property. 

With the first money we saved at home, we added to our pretty 
house by throwing out a little Growlery expressly for my Guardian ; 
which we inaugurated with great splendour the next time he came 
down to see us. I try to write all this lightly, because my heart 
is full in drawing to an end ; but when I write of him, my tears 
will have their way. 

I never look at him, but I hear our poor dear Richard calling 
him a good man. To Ada and her pretty boy, he is the fondest 
father ; to me, he is what he has ever been, and what name can I 
give to that ! He is my husband's best and dearest friend, he is 
our children's darling, he is the object of our deepest love and 
veneration. Yet while I feel towards him as if he were a supe- 
rior being, I am so familiar with him, and so easy with him, that 
I almost wonder at myself. I have never lost my old names, nor 
has he lost his ; nor do I ever, when he is with us, sit in any other 
place than in my old chair at his side. Dame Trot, Dame Durden, 
Little Woman ! — all just the same as ever ; and I answer, Yes, 
dear Guardian ! — just the same. 

I have never known the wind to be in the East for a single 
moment, since the day when he took me to the porch to read the 
name. I remarked to him, once, that the wind seemed never in 
the East now : and he said. No, truly ; it had finally departed 
from that quarter on that very day. 



814 BLEAK HOUSE. 

I think my darling girl is more beautiful than ever. The sorrow 
that has been in her face — for it is not there now — seems to 
have purified even its innocent expression, and to have given it a 
diviner quality. Sometimes, when I raise my eyes and see her, in 
the black dress that she still wears, teaching my Richard, I feel — 
it is difficult to express — as if it were so good to know that she 
remembers her dear Esther in her prayers. 

I call him my Richard ! But he says that he has two mamas, 
and I am one. 

We are not rich in the bank, but we have always prospered, and 
we have quite enough. I never walk out with my husband, but I 
hear the people bless him. I never go into a house of any degree, 
but I hear his praises, or see them in grateful eyes. I never lie 
down at night, but I know that in the course of that day he has 
alleviated pain, and soothed some fellow-creature in the time of 
need. I know that from the beds of those who were past recovery, 
thanks have often, often gone up, in the last hour, for his patient 
ministration. Is not this to be rich ? 

The people even praise Me as the doctor's wife. The people 
even like Me as I go about, and make so much of me that I am 
quite abashed. I owe it all to him, my love, my pride ! They 
like me for his sake, as I do everything I do in life for his sake. 

A night or two ago, after bustling about preparing for my dar- 
ling and my Guardian and little Richard, who are coming to-morrow, 
I was sitting out in the porch of all places, that dearly memorable 
porch, when Allan came home. So he said, " My precious little 
woman, what are you doing here 1 " And I said, " The moon is 
shining so brightly, Allan, and the night is so delicious, that I have 
been sitting here, thinking." 

"What have you been thinking about, my dear?" said Allan 
then. 

" How curious you are ! " said I. " I am almost ashamed to 
tell you, but I will. I have been thinking about my old looks — 
such as they were." 

"And what have you been thinking about them, my busy bee?" 
said Allan. 

" I have been thinking, that I thought it was impossible that 
you could have loved me any better, even if I had retained them." 

" Such as they were ? " said Allan, laughing. 

"Such as they were, of course." 

"My dear Dame Durden," said Allan, drawing my arm through 
his, " Do you ever look in the glass ? " 

"You know I do; you see me do it." 

" And don't you know that you are prettier than you ever were ? " 



BLEAK HOUSE. 815 

I did not know that ; I am not certain that I know it now. 
But I know that my dearest Httle pets are very pretty, and that 
my darhng is very beautiful, and that my husband is very hand- 
some, and that my Guardian has the brightest and most benevolent 
face that ever was seen ; and that they can very well do without 
much beauty in me — even supposing . 



THE END. 



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